


Burnout

by blackcatscratch



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Awkward Romance, Bulma knows what she wants, Eventual Smut, F/M, Feelings are the enemy, Overthinking, Slow Burn, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Vegeta not so much
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2019-07-14 13:23:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 117,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16041326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackcatscratch/pseuds/blackcatscratch
Summary: Bulma Briefs has always been in control. Since childhood there has always been an established plan to follow and goals to work towards: where she'd go to school, what she'd study, where she'd work, the kind of house she'd live in. The drive and diligence she has relied on throughout her academic career have finally brought her to mere months before college graduation, when an unsuspected roadblock suddenly throws itself in her way. Will Bulma be able to power through to achieve her long sought after goals, or will a certain handsome distraction veer her off course?A slow burn VegeBul college AU fic.





	1. Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Thanks for having a look at this fic. It's very much still in the development process, so hang in there with me as I update as possible. I've had this idea banging around in my head for some time now, so being able to transplant it into something solid is exciting.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it!

By the time she pulled off at her exit and was able to merge onto the main thoroughfare that would lead her through town, the rain had slowed considerably and there was the slightest hint of sunlight peeking through the clouds above. It was a Thursday in August, inconsequential in all aspects; however, thanks to the weather, traffic through South City was insufferable, and what should have been a trip that lasted no longer than two hours at the most was clocking in at the three-hour mark. Seeing brake lights again pop to life in front of her, Bulma slowly pumped her own brakes and edged to a full stop. She exhaled irritably through her nose, letting her left elbow sit against the steering wheel as her head fell forward to rest against the butt of her hand. Her eyes flicked over to the clock on her dashboard for what must have been the hundredth time, and she pursed her lips in annoyance at the hour. She had expected to arrive around noon, and it was creeping past one o’clock at this point. Jeez.

The cars in front of her began to crawl forward again, and she straightened in her seat to fall back into a slow progression down the street with everyone else. Fortunately, her turn was only two streets down from where she got off the highway, and it only took another ten minutes before she was gratefully pulling out of the sea of cars and making her way down a silent residential street. She looked around at the houses as she drove, recognizing some of them; they were all student residences, old houses that the university had bought decades ago and dedicated to frats and sororities so they could close to campus without having to be in dorms. While she didn’t personally belong to any of these groups, they were often the site of some of the school’s best parties, and she had definitely made the occasional rounds on Thursday nights during her tenure there. Quiet as the neighborhood was right then, Bulma knew that within a few weeks there would be rowdy teenagers, kegs, and loud music cluttering the small front yards and porches on any given weekend. She smiled to herself, looking forward to it.

Despite the incredible amount of school work she was subject to whenever classes were in session - she was completing a double major in mechanical engineering and computer science, whose challenges she enjoyed immensely but which also required long periods of dedicated time - Bulma felt a thrill of emotion as she neared closer to South City University's campus. Aside from the enjoyment of seeing her friends again, which was definitely an advantage to returning, she was sincerely ready to start learning again, to get back into the lab and start tinkering, to see what her other colleagues were working on. There was truly no rival to the feeling of satisfaction she had when she worked through a particularly difficult abstract calculus problem, or fixed an issue with a piece of technical equipment, or finally figured out what the bug in her line of code was. Last semester she had helped her professor design an underwater power distribution system that was not only autonomous, but continuous, which would allow researchers to use submerged vehicles on the ocean floor without worry of them breaking down. The gratification she got from not only being included in these projects but excelling at them was a better high than she had ever managed to get from anything else, and she had been itching to get back into the lab since she had left it back in May.

The main university campus was just a moment's drive farther down from the small community of student housing; the large, wrought iron gates were splayed open and the small guard house that sat in the middle of the entrance had an officer on either side, checking parking passes as people came in and out. There was a small line of cars in front of her, but within a minute or two Bulma was looking up at the familiar face of the guard as he reached out to confirm her parking approval.

“Why, good afternoon,” he greeted her, a friendly smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as her accepted the paperwork she handed him through the window. "Moving back in today, huh?"

"Yep!" Bulma confirmed with a smile of her own. "Last time, too. This will be my senior year."

"Well, congratulations!" he said genially, glancing down at her as he rifled through the papers. He paused for a moment, reading one of them, and then handed the documents back to her. "Looks good to go. Make sure you stop by the registrar's office to get the laminated pass that hangs from your rearview mirror, or you could get towed out of the lot. Have a great fall semester."

"Thank you," she said graciously, giving him a final smile as she tossed the papers into her passenger seat and accelerated through the gate. The road that ran into the heart of the campus was long and winding, leading through sweeping lawns populated by the various faculty buildings. She glided silently through in her sedan, inhaling happily as the cool post rain breeze lightly tousled her short hair. Aside from the handful of other students that also appeared to be moving back in, the campus looked generally empty still; the sprawling green spaces were barren, as were the fields in the sports compound, and on a normal day during the school year there would be students milling all over. She gazed at the familiar old buildings as she passed, recognizing them as places that held the library, the cafeteria, the school of liberal arts, the science labs - all places she had come to know and love during the past three years. She hummed contentedly as she came up to a small intersection, made a left turn, and began her ascent up to her dormitory building, all the while tapping her fingers against the steering wheel in time with the pop song on the radio.

Bulma lived in what was probably the oldest dorm on campus: it had been built some time during the 1960s, and although she had heard people say it had been renovated at some point during the '80s, she found that hard to believe; at the very least, there was nothing to show for it. It was a cold, brick building somewhat resembling what could be a Hollywood movie's representation of a prison: it was long and squat, with small square windows and a crumbling facade that was badly in need of a facelift. There was considerable calcium build-up on the bricks, marring them white, thanks to decades of exposure to the elements with little to no upkeep, and the paint on the old shutters that flanked the windows was chipped and peeling. Despite its unappealing esthetic, Bulma’s heart swelled as she pulled into the parking lot next to the building and finally turned her car off. She was home.

Although West City, her hometown, was not far enough away to warrant bringing all of her belongings with her to school, Bulma liked coming prepared enough that she would not have to go back more than what was absolutely necessary. If ever she realized she had forgotten something important at home, she was more likely to just go buy a replacement of whatever it was than to plan a weekend home to stock up on any missing necessities. She had friends that returned to their parents’ houses as often as once or twice a month; for Bulma, that seemed illogical. She had spent most of her life under her parents’ roof, and although she loved them dearly, she was more than ready to get out and forge her own path. She simply didn’t miss home while she was away, like others did. Here at school she had the freedom to come and go as she preferred, to work or study for as long as she wanted, to eat whatever she felt like, and to lounge about as she pleased. At home there was constantly an event to go to, guests to entertain, projects that needed urgent attention, and a plethora of other items constantly begging for her time. It was exhausting, and she was at a point in her life where she had her own goals and hobbies she would rather dedicate herself to; this space allowed her the freedom to do that.

Bulma popped her trunk and was greeted by way more luggage than she realistically needed. Why had she thought to bring so many bags? She pondered her predicament for a moment before resigning herself to two separate trips, and then randomly grabbing a duffel and a suitcase to lug up for the first round. She slowly made her way up the sidewalk and through the side door of the dorm building to go around the corner where the elevator was, huffing only slightly in exertion.

The building itself was rather simple on the inside; despite occupying what was easily the length of a city block, it was only three stories high, and was designed in a way that allowed the dorms only along the outer ring of the rectangular structure. This left the entire middle section an open courtyard. There were as a long, open walkway that wrapped around the circumference of each floor with an overhang up top to protect people from rain or snow, but the courtyard was open to the sky. On the ground it was littered with concrete benches and tables, where students could come out on nice days to study or gather in small groups. Bulma looked down on the area as she exited the elevator on the second floor and began her journey around the long balcony, to where her dorm was: number 204. The ground was still wet from the intense rain of that morning, and water dripped from the overhang up above as she walked up to her door and struggled with her keys.

She yanked her suitcase inside with her and allowed the heavy front door to slam noisily after her as she entered. The dorm looked almost the same as it had when she had left it several months earlier: upon entrance was a big open room that served as the living room on the right and the kitchen on the left. The living room was sparse, with a junky TV stand and small television, and a black leather couch across from them, but nothing else. The kitchen, too, was rather empty: it had a small table with two chairs, a pot on the stove, and a small fridge in the far corner. Not much, but it made Bulma smile to see it all again.

A small hall directly in front of her led to the bathroom on the right, a bedroom across from that, and another bedroom at the far end. From the bedroom in front of the bathroom, Bulma could hear music, and surely enough after a second she heard her roommate’s voice.

“Hello?” A disembodied blonde head popped around the corner of the bedroom’s door frame. Bulma felt herself grin involuntarily at the sight of her grumpy friend.

“Eighteen!” she chirped, abandoning her bags on the floor to hustle over for a hug. She squealed as she squeezed her friend, who only grumbled a little at the physical contact.

“Bulma, it’s only been a couple weeks,” Eighteen griped, pulling herself free from her embrace, “and we texted practically every day over the break!”

“It wasn’t a ‘couple weeks’, it was two full months! And texting doesn’t count. It’s not the same as seeing you in person,” Bulma chided, stepping back and making a face at her. As expected, Eighteen had not changed during the past eight weeks. Her white blonde hair was still cut in a sleek bob under her chin, the small golden hoops she always wore still in her ears, and an uninterested look was plastered on her otherwise impeccable features. The only makeup she ever wore was eyeliner, and sure enough she was wearing some then, a thin black frame to her crystalline eyes. She’d dressed her thin frame casually, in a jean skirt and a black tank top, and her bare foot was tapping against the wood floor.

Eighteen had been Bulma's roommate since freshman year, and despite their considerable differences, they had gotten along famously. Eighteen - whose real name was Juuhachigou - was a political science major, and had intentions to go to law school after she graduated. She was stern and serious, often bordering on apathetic, but also sarcastic and witty. Her dry sense of humor was often the only thing that dragged Bulma through especially difficult study sessions, and she was glad to have her just around the corner from her room whenever she needed some company. 

“What took you so long?” Eighteen complained, crossing her arms across her chest and leaning up against the door frame. “I though you said you’d be here before twelve.”

“Well, I had planned to be, but people in this town have apparently never seen rain before, because nobody knew how to drive in it,” Bulma groused, turning back to her abandoned luggage. “Some moron got into an accident in the center lane and backed up traffic for miles. It took ages to get off the highway. Here, help me with this.” She held the duffel bag out for Eighteen to take.

Her friend accepted the bag from her and turned to go down the hall towards Bulma’s room. “I’ve been so bored the past couple days,” she grumbled at Bulma. “I’ve been here since Tuesday, and there has been nothing to do.”

Bulma meandered down the hall after her, dragging the suitcase. “What about Krillin? He didn’t come down with you at the same time?” she asked, referring to her friend’s long time beau. Krillin was hopelessly infatuated with Eighteen, and Bulma had a hard time imagining him letting her move back in all alone, especially since he himself was about to start his final year there. He tried his hardest to tend to Eighteen's every whim, and although she often acted agitated by the constant attention, Bulma sensed she secretly reveled in it. 

Eighteen had a twin brother that Bulma had only met on a couple of occasions; oddly enough, his nickname was Seventeen. Eighteen had tried to explain it to Bulma once – something about the order in which they’d been born – but it had seemed like a bizarre inside joke that she didn’t understand, and hadn’t asked about since. What she did know, though, was that Seventeen had always been Eighteen’s closest friend; so when he decided to go to school across the country, he’d left his sister lonely and dejected. Krillin coming into the picture had given Eighteen back the attention and companionship she’d desperately been missing – or so Bulma hypothesized. Of course, she would never tell her friend this, at least not unless she wanted a punch to the gut.

“Well, yeah, he drove down with me to help me move in, but he didn’t actually move himself in until today,” Eighteen was saying. She put the duffle on the floor next to Bulma’s bed and hoisted herself onto the mattress. “He’d promised Tien and Yamcha he would help them move, too, and had to go back that same night. I don’t know why they even bother living on campus since they just go to school in West City.”

“Oh. Yeah, who knows. Maybe they like the freedom.” Bulma sat her book bag on the ground and looked around at her small room, eager to talk about anything that wasn’t Yamcha. A single bed was pushed against the far wall to the right, in front of the only window. There was a simple desk with a chair right next to her across from the doorway, and an equally plain armoire between the bed and the door, against the front wall. A small mirror adorned the small space next to the armoire. It was a small bedroom – truthfully, it was the size of her closet at home – but it was all her own, and she was relieved to see it again. She exhaled, content. “I’m so happy to be back! If I had to spend another night looking through gala flower arrangements with my mother, I was going to lose it.”

Eighteen crinkled her little nose. “Ick,” she agreed, looking absent mindedly at her nails for a moment before standing again. “Well, hurry up and unpack. I need to get out of this apartment before I go stir crazy,” she said flatly as she walked past Bulma to the door. Bulma turned to watch her leave, exasperated.

“Oh, please! You’ve been here two days!” she said with a laugh. Eighteen dismissed the comment with a vague wave of her hand, not bothering to look back, and disappeared back into her own bedroom.

By herself now, Bulma turned back to her bags. Unpacking was one of her most hated tasks, and because of that she wanted to do it right away to get it done with. She went back down to her car briefly to get her remaining suitcase and the box, and then spent the next hour and a half refilling her bedroom with her belongings. She used the drawers in the armoire for her regular clothes: one drawer for underwear, socks, and bras; another for shirts; another for pants; and so on. In the small space next to the drawers where she could hang things up, she put her sweaters, jackets, and dresses. On the floor space below those things, she arranged the few pairs of shoes she had brought with her.

On the desk by the door she put her computer and stationary, arranging binder clips along the side of the desk to pull her various chargers through for easy access: one for her computer, her phone, her tablet, her Bluetooth speaker. She opened the only box she had brought with her, and arranged the books inside it in the two desk drawers. She took her toiletries into the bathroom and arranged them nearly along the sink and along the drain of the shower, hanging her towel from the hook behind the door. Lastly, she pulled her dark purple bedsheets and white comforter from her duffle bag and made her bed, before realizing she’d left her pillow in the back seat of her car. She scoffed at herself, making a mental note to go back down later to get it.

“Are you done yet?” Eighteen griped, sticking her head back into Bulma’s bedroom. Bulma turned to look at her from where she was on the floor, stuffing her now empty suitcases into the space under her bed.

“Good God, yes already,” Bulma said, exasperated at her roommate’s impatience. She got up from the ground, swiping at her knees absently. “What do you want to do?”

“Let’s go eat, please! I had breakfast at like, nine, and it’s already after three,” Eighteen whined, patting her stomach for dramatic effect. Bulma nodded, bending over to pull her sneakers back on.

“Okay, okay, let’s go!”

The walk over to the cafeteria wasn’t terribly far, but it wasn’t nearby, either. Their dorm was at the top of a gentle sloping hill that took a good five minutes to wander down, and then it was another ten minutes or so across campus to the mess hall. The two girls walked leisurely across campus, enjoying the mild weather, laughing occasionally about a comment the other had said. The sun peaked out lazily from behind the still overcast skies and the grounds were beginning to dry up, allowing them to traipse across the lawns, carefully avoiding persistent puddles.

“You’re too hard on him!” Bulma insisted to Eighteen as they walked through the front doors of the building into the cool confines of the cafeteria. Eighteen was a sarcastic, critical person by nature, and although Bulma understood her mocking jokes, she sometimes thought it might hurt Krillin’s feelings. “You need to lighten up a little and let the boy study whatever he likes. You know how much he reads into what you think.”

“Yeah, but criminal justice?” Eighteen made a face at the idea, following Bulma to the buffet line. “I just wish he would get into a worthwhile field. Besides, Krillin’s too short to be an intimidating law enforcer.”

The two burst out laughing again as they helped themselves to food, adding a few things here and there to their trays as they advanced in the line. “He’s in great shape, though,” Bulma said, grabbing a bottled water and exiting the line. “Maybe that will give him an advantage.”

“Eh,” Eighteen said, sounding unconvinced. They wandered over to an empty round table, surrounded by chairs, and sat down together. “He’s got a nice body, but his martial arts skills aren’t what they could be. Especially when you compare him with, say, Goku.”

Bulma rolled her eyes at the comment as she opened her water. Now she was definitely being too critical. “Eighteen, please. Goku’s some kind of anomaly with that stuff – it’s unfair to compare Krillin to him. Besides, that is all Goku ever wants to do. At least Krillin has other priorities.”

“I guess… Hey, look, speak of the devil,” Eighteen commented, looking across the cafeteria as she cut at her chicken breast. Bulma looked up, following her gaze. Sure enough, walking in through the front doors of the cafeteria came a small group of guys: Krillin and Goku were at the forefront, with whom Bulma recognized as Piccolo bringing up the rear. All three of them were wearing gym shorts and sweaty t-shirts, and Bulma suspected they were coming from practice.

“Hey, guys!” Bulma called, waving her hand in the air to get their attention. Goku’s head snapped up, interrupting whatever conversation he’d been having with Krillin, and his handsome features broke into a wide grin at the sight of them. He turned and made his way over.

“Hey you guys,” he said amiably as he approached, scratching the back of his wild head of hair. Bulma reached over to pat his forearm amicably by way of greeting, and only grumbled a little as he ruffled her hair in return. “I didn’t think you’d moved in already! How’s it going?”

“Fine. Boring,” Eighteen remarked, reaching out to squeeze Krillin’s hand as he came over to join them. Bulma couldn’t help but notice the look of adoration she flashed at him as approached, smiling. “Did you just get in today?”

“Yeah, we all drove down together early this morning since Coach wanted to start up practice today,” Krillin confirmed, nodding as he looked over at the other two boys. Piccolo stood silently behind Goku, arms crossed over his chest, brooding. Despite him constantly being present at group get-togethers, Bulma had never really had too much interaction with Piccolo. He was rather reserved, and really only ever spoke to Goku. She regarded his tall frame for a moment before looking back at Goku.

“How’s Chi Chi? Gohan?” she asked, taking a bite of her noodles. Goku’s longtime girlfriend, Chi Chi, had been Bulma’s good friend throughout high school, and the center of quite a scandal when she’d gotten pregnant with his son at sixteen. Luckily, her father had been supportive and Chi Chi had been able to graduate despite the circumstances; however, she’d been uninterested in formal college and instead preferred to dedicate her time to being a mom. She currently had an apartment with Goku back in West City that her dad helped finance, where they lived with their now four-year-old boy Gohan. During the school year, Goku stayed on campus, but made semi-frequent trips home to visit.

“Eh, she’s fine,” Goku said plaintively, not looking entirely convinced. Bulma stared at him, waiting for more details. He obliged. “It’s just, you know how she gets when I come back to school. She keeps telling me to forget about it and just get a job, but I’m so close to getting some real notoriety with martial arts…” his voice faded, leaving the obvious unsaid. Bulma knew his priorities lay with martial arts, for as much as he might have loved his little family. It wasn’t for nothing, either; Goku was an incredibly talented martial artist, easily the best at their school, and had made it to national tournaments on multiple occasions. It was the whole reason he was still in school, really; although she cared for him deeply, Bulma recognized that her friend was pretty hopeless academically. He managed to stay enrolled in school based on the good press he got for their sports program. South City University prided themselves on their history of successful martial arts teams, championships and trophies, and Goku had managed an incredible scholarship based on his contributions to those areas.

“Well, tell her I said hi when you speak to her again,” Bulma said. Now that she thought about it, it had been quite some time since she had seen Chi Chi. She made a mental note to make plans with her soon, before glancing at the other two guys. “How was practice? Coach Kaio still pushing you all hard?”

Krillin groaned, resting an elbow affectionately on Eighteen’s shoulder as she ate. “Ugh, you have no idea. We barely did any sparring at all. It was all sprints and push-ups and crunches,” he griped, looking pained at the recent memory. “I think it’s because there were a couple new guys there, and he was trying to get a read on their physical strength. Still, brutal.”

“You mean incoming freshman?” Eighteen asked nonchalantly, munching on salad.

Goku shook his head. “No, not all of them. At least one of them was our age – I think they said he was a transfer from a different city,” he explained, leaning up against one of the empty chairs.

“Oh, yeah,” Krillin piped in, agreeing. “Seems like a real a grouch, that guy. He didn’t say a damn thing all practice, and had this look on his face the whole time like he didn’t even want to be there. Coach said he was a recruitment, though – I think someone offered him a scholarship to transfer if he’d be on the team, so he must be good.” Behind Goku, Piccolo grunted and nodded his head in agreement.

“Well, that’s good,” Bulma said noncommittedly, slurping another noodle. “Are you guys gonna eat? Go get some food and come sit with us.”

Goku’s face crumpled suddenly, and he let out a whine. “I’m starving,” he said, and promptly began walking over to the food line with the other two boys following behind.

The rest of their early dinner was spent amongst the five of them, chatting and laughing, getting caught up on lost time. Although they all lived in the vicinity of West City, they were all spread out: Bulma lived right downtown, whereas Goku and Krillin lived in the rural area surrounding the city, Eighteen lived in the suburbs, and Piccolo – well, Bulma had no idea where Piccolo lived, honestly; he just always seemed to be around. Regardless, they didn’t see each other much when they weren’t at school, and it was nice to sit down together again and just hang out.

By the time they were leaving the cafeteria, it was well after five o’clock. She and Eighteen bid the boys goodbye and began their walk back to their dorm as the three of them turned in the opposite direction and headed back to their own building. The evening was cool and breezy, particularly mild for August, and even the walk back up the hill to the dorm didn’t seem so bad.

* * * * *

As expected, the sizeable gym was practically empty when she and Eighteen arrived later that evening. There was a girl on an elliptical, and two guys in the far corner pummeling punching bags, but nobody else. Eighteen immediately went over to the squat rack, abandoning Bulma to wonder how the hell she’d let her friend talk her into accompanying her to the damn gym in the first place. Although not terribly out of shape, Bulma was definitely no athlete, and the gym often left her feeling a little out of place. She looked around the large open space blithely for a moment before opting for one of the many treadmills that lined the mirrored walls throughout the gym. She stretched for a few moments before powering the machine on, and began lightly jogging. 

Despite her slow speed, by the time she was twenty minutes into the run she was sweaty and out of breath. She pushed herself to thirty minutes, legs pumping numbly while her heart banged around in her chest, before slowing to a walk. She allowed herself a few moments of cool down before abandoning the treadmill altogether, trying to catch her breath. She didn’t go to the gym frequently, but once in a while a jog did her mind good.

After a moment, she stood up straight and regarded herself in one of the mirrors spanning the length of the wall. She was of pretty average height and build; if anything, she was on the small side. Her shocking blue hair was cut short, under her ears and shaved at the neck, and she had some fringe at the front that framed her face. Her eyes were large and round, a shade of bright blue that just matched her hair color. The athletic shorts and gray tank top she had on were a tad oversized, she noted vaguely. Bulma never put too much thought into what she wore – she was often too busy working on schoolwork, or some engineering project to care what clothes she had on – but was just careful enough to think she was pretty presentable most of the time. Her plain wardrobe made it difficult to look too sloppy; how could you look bad in a t-shirt and jeans? She scrunched her nose at her reflection before turning and walking away from the treadmill. 

She meandered over the fountain in the far corner of the gym and took several long, grateful drinks of cool water before straightening, turning around, and running head on into someone else. Bulma stumbled backwards, surprised. She realized dimly that it was one of the two guys that had been assaulting a punching bag when she’d arrived. He wasn’t very tall – he looked to be around the same height as her, honestly – but his hair was a jet black flame that seemed to stand straight up, and definitely added a few inches to his stature. He was wearing a pair of black joggers that tapered at the ankle, and although he had a shirt slung over his shoulder, he wasn’t wearing it, which gave Bulma full view of his impressive physique. He had broad, muscular shoulders that gave way to sculpted arms; his abdomen, too, was all hard, cut angles, down to the narrow waist that disappeared below the waistband of his pants.

Her eyes lingered for just a tick too long on his body before she looked up at his angular face to apologize for bumping into him, but cut herself short at the look he was giving her. A deep scowl was marring what would have otherwise been attractive features. “Move,” he ordered gruffly, and elbowed past her without another word.

She stumbled at the shove and stared after him, mouth slightly agape, watching as he walked through the gym towards the locker rooms. Her brow knit together in annoyance. “Excuse you!” she trilled after him, stamping her foot indignantly. He ignored her, and disappeared behind the door to the men’s room a moment later. She scoffed to herself. What a jerk.

“You done already?” Eighteen asked, coming up behind Bulma. Her cheeks were pink from exertion, and beads of sweat crowded her brow. Bulma looked back at her absently and nodded.

“Yeah, I’m going to head back to shower. You can stay, though,” she said, glancing back at the men’s locker room door, still a bit miffed by the rude stranger.

“Okay. See you back at the apartment, then,” Eighteen said, and walked back over to the free weights area where she had been doing lunges.

*******

Bulma was walking up to her apartment door, key in hand, wondering if she could get into the science department before classes started on Monday, when she abruptly stopped. She thought she’d heard banging from somewhere nearby. She strained for a moment, waiting, and then heard it again: a low BANG followed by muffled yelling. It sounded like it was coming from the floor below her. She hesitated for a moment before walking over to the walkway railing and leaning over the side to see if she could tell where it was coming from amongst the apartments below. Bulma was considering ignoring it instead and just going inside, when the door to one of the dorms on the ground floor across the courtyard flew open, and a small television was launched out of it. Caught by surprise, she flinched as the appliance smashed loudly onto the ground.

“Now look what you did!” Someone was shouting, and a moment later a large, bald youth emerged from the open door. He walked over to what was now a busted TV set, looking down at it, before snapping his gaze back up at the doorway and pointing at the television accusingly. “What the fuck did you do that for?!”

“I told you to turn that bullshit down. I’m trying to fucking sleep!” A different boy appeared in the doorway, dark hair shaggy and tousled past his shoulders. He, too, was broad and muscular. He was wearing what appeared to be gym spandex and a muscle tank top. “I just got back from the goddamn gym, and I want to fucking chill without that crock of shit blaring!”

“Well you didn’t have to break it!” Baldy howled back at him, gesticulating widely at the broken television on the ground next to him, its inside splayed sadly across the concrete. “How the fuck am I going to watch my shows now? You KNOW I like to – “

He faltered in his shouting as a third person came into view, walking across the courtyard towards them. Bulma watched nosily from her perch on the balcony, enraptured, before realizing after a moment that the recent arrival was the jerk from the gym. He’d put a black t-shirt on, covering his admirable form, but there was no confusing his spiky hair nor the scowl that was apparently always smacked across his face. The two other boys turned to look at him as he arrived.

“Both of you shut up,” he ordered curtly. Bulma could barely hear him; he hadn’t raised his voice like the other two, and there was obviously no need to as they both obeyed. Spiky Hair turned to regard the splintered television with disdain before taking his hand out of his pocket to gesture at it vaguely. “Nappa, clean that bullshit up and stop whining. It was old as shit, anyway.”

The bald one gave him a sour look, but kneeled down to pick up the fractured pieces of the TV with no further argument. He gathered them together in his big arms before turning and walking back into the apartment. Shaggy Hair stepped aside to let him in before disappearing back into the dorm himself. Spiky Hair watched them go inside before turning towards the open door.

Bulma hesitated just a moment before impulsively leaning back out over the railing and pointing at him accusingly. “Hey – HEY YOU!” she shouted. Spiky Hair tensed before snapping his head to look up at where her accusatory voice was coming from. She glared at him as their eyes locked. “You were a real jerk to me at the gym! There’s no need to be so damn rude, you know!”

He stared at her for a moment before the slightest trace of a sneer graced his face and he audibly scoffed; then, promptly turned his head back around to disappear into the dorm where the other two had already gone. The door slammed behind him, an abrupt end to their nonexistent conversation. Bulma stared, unbelieving of his discourtesy. Had he really ignored her? Laughed at her? Real class act, this guy. She scowled.

"Well FINE then!" she shouted down at the closed door. She paused for a moment, fuming, before she too turned on her heels, opened her apartment, and slammed the door behind her.


	2. An Inconvenience, and a Threat

The next few days went by uneventfully for Bulma. She and Eighteen spent some time together, going to the grocery store to get a few essentials like instant noodles and toilet paper, and watching cheesy TV dramas in their small living room; other than that, however, Bulma's interactions with other people were limited. She tried on multiple occasions to get into the science lab, but found that her key card wasn't working, and supposed it wouldn't until the official start of classes. She'd spent an especially desperate few hours loitering outside the front entrance, hoping that a professor would come by whom she could convince to let her in, but eventually she resigned herself to the fact that nobody would be coming around at four o'clock in the afternoon on a Saturday. 

By the time her alarm finally went off on Monday morning, Bulma was already awake and tousling her wet hair with a towel, fresh from a shower. "Eager to get back to class" did not accurately convey the gumption with which she gathered her things and rocketed from the apartment, despite it being only seven thirty. She had a desperate case of cabin fever (despite having mocked Eighteen for the same thing mere days earlier) and was itching to put her brain to work. She locked the apartment door behind her, as Eighteen was still snoozing inside (and would be until the afternoon), and happily turned to go.

Her first class - cheerily titled  _Vibrations, Controls, and Optimization_  – went by quickly, and she was surprised to hear the professor dismiss them before realizing the time. She had another class directly after that one across campus that she barely made it in time for, and when that also ended she swung by the library for some preliminary research on a project included on the syllabus the professor had passed out. It was well past two o’clock before she forced herself to go grab a sandwich from the cafeteria, and even then she only had half an hour before needing to scurry to the liberal arts building.

Clutching her schedule in one hand and her laptop bag in the other, Bulma’s eyes sifted down the spreadsheet she’d received in the mail a month earlier with her classes, their times, and locations. _Okay,_ she mused to herself _, So today is Monday, and it’s almost three o’clock, which means I’m going to room 9056A, and that will be with Professor Snyder, for_  – 

Bulma blanched at the word on her schedule, her pace slowing to a stop as she squinted at the paper. No, no, that had to be wrong. She had  _not_  signed up for that. “What the fuuu…?” she mumbled incredulously, double and triple checking her name at the top of the page and looking back down at the bold print SPANISH staring back up at her. How had she not realized this mistake when she got the schedule weeks ago? She thought she’d been pretty thorough in prepping for the semester, but she had certainly not wanted any language classes, which meant she also hadn’t bought any textbooks.

She wavered for a moment before her eye caught the time on the simple black watch around her wrist. 3:02 PM. She was late. Bulma made a face, unsure of what to do for a second before relenting.  _Okay, I’ll go to the first class just for good measure, and then head right over to the registrar to fix this. It’s obviously a mistake. You can make it through one class, Bulma._  She took off down the hallway again, speed checking the classroom numbers, before coming to an open door with “9056A” in bold, black print on the plate next to the door frame. 

Bulma floated awkwardly in the doorway, looking desperately for an open chair she could park herself in. Not only did she not see any familiar faces, but the classroom was packed, and the professor was already talking.  _Come on, come on – oh, oh! There!_  

She spotted an empty corner chair at a table nestled in the back of the classroom, and did her best to quietly glide along the side of the space to sit down without interrupting the professor. Quietly putting her things on the floor beside her, she glanced up the short woman at the front of the class and tried to tune into whatever she was saying.

“Despite this being an entry level course,” she was explaining, leaning up against the podium at the front of the room with one of her elbows languidly hanging over the end, “I have always firmly believed that immersion is the best way to pick up a new language. Because of that, I will be doing my very best to avoid English during the hour we’re here every Monday and Thursday, and I kindly ask that you do the same.” She looked around the class of what must have been forty people, as though daring anyone to challenge her. When nobody did, she turned to pick up a clipboard from her nearby desk. Bulma squirmed, squinting in an attempt to see what she was doing from her place at the back of the room.

“Alright, so first and foremost I’d like to take attendance. I’m going to pencil you into the seating chart for where you’re currently sitting, so I ask that wherever you have sat today please be your seat for the remainder of the semester – it makes it much easier for me to quickly see who is and isn’t here at the beginning of class,” she explained, flipping through the pages on her clipboard before settling on one. Bulma glanced at the person next to her, who was wearing a black sweatshirt with the hood up and was slumped over on the table, head nuzzled into their folded arms. Freshman level courses really had an assortment of people in them, she mused to herself. Nobody in any of her science or math based classes could ever have afforded to sleep through a lesson.

“Okay, so… Allen, Eliza?” the professor called, looking around the room. Bulma watched as a girl with dark hair on the far side of the class raised her hand. “Great. Anderson, Oliver? … Okay… Avery, Cooper? … Good…” the professor mumbled, glancing up after each name to then scribble a note on her sheet. Bulma bent down to pull out a notepad and a pencil, waiting for her name to be called.

“Bennett, Soraya? … Breigh, Vegeta?” The huddled black figure next to Bulma stirred, arm lazily raising into the air to have their presence acknowledged, not bothering to lift their head. “Okay… Briefs, Bulma?” Bulma raised her hand, turning her head to look up at the stout woman. The professor marked her on her sheet and continued on down the list of students until everyone present had been accounted for. 

An important thing to know about Bulma was that, while rarely intending to be overly presumptuous or arrogant, she was quite confident in her academic abilities. She had graduated from high school early at the top of her class, and could have easily started college before any of her friends had it not been for her unwillingness to leave them behind; the fact that barely any of them had ended up going to the same university as her anyway was beside the point. Instead, she had taken some classes at the local community college in West City, and worked with her father during her free time to keep her mind busy and occupied. She had rarely ever struggled with coursework of any kind, enjoying most subjects; although science and math were her favorites, she also enjoyed literature and art and history. They all had something valuable and interesting about them, and she'd always gobbled up everything she could learn, eager for more. 

Notwithstanding, Bulma found the rest of the Spanish class borderline incomprehensible. She had never had to take a language class before, having dedicated the mandatory liberal arts credits in high school to things like philosophy and arts history, and she found both the grammar and phonetics nonsensical. While the rest of the class managed their way through basic vocabulary exercises and listening practice, Bulma ogled the worksheets she’d been given, perplexed. Why did the verbs change depending on the subject matter? How did the accent marks change the pronunciation, and why? Since when did words have  _gender_? Was there really a need for that? None of it made any logical sense, and she was mystified. She glanced at her snoozing neighbor, jealous of their relaxed, oblivious state.

By the time the class ended, Bulma had firmly decided that Spanish was not for her, and the original inclination she’d had to drop the class at the earliest opportunity was resolutely decided upon. Not only was this class useless for her career, but its unreliable rules agitated her; frankly, she had more important things to be spending her time studying. Also (though she’d have preferred a round of waterboarding torture before admitting it), it had been a long, long time since Bulma had not been immediately good at something new, and the feeling made her embarrassingly uneasy.  _I could absolutely be great at this if I wanted to_ , she assured herself as she closed her notebook resolutely.  _I just… don’t want to_.

She packed her things back into her bag as the rest of the class filed out of the room in small groups, chatting and laughing intermittently. As she stood to go, she caught another look at the person sitting next to her, still sprawled over the table with their hooded head hidden in the nest they'd made of their intertwined arms. She paused for a moment before deciding to do them a favor and wake them up; despite their obvious disregard for the lesson, it would still be embarrassing to wake up to an empty classroom. Besides, maybe they had had a long night - there had definitely been occasions for Bulma where she had pulled an all-nighter and had difficulty keeping her eyes open during classes the following day.

Reaching over and gently shaking the person’s arm, Bulma quietly said, “Hey. Hey, buddy. Class is over.” There was a slight pause during which Bulma thought she’d have to repeat herself, before the lump moved, swiveling to turn and look at her over the side of their arm.

“And?” said what was now obviously a guy, eyes glaring at her over his sleeve for a moment before straightening completely in his seat, extending his arms above his head sleepily and allowing his hood to fall back to expose a shock of spiky black hair. Bulma looked at him for a moment before her face crumpled in annoyance, realization hitting her.

“You!” she said vehemently, squinting at him as he arched his back, stretching lazily. He looked at her uninterestedly, arching an eyebrow at her overreaction. She continued to scowl at him. “You’re the jerk who shoved me in the gym the other day! And then  _laughed_  about it later!”

He let his arms fall back down to the table, no sign of recognition crossing his face for several moments before his eyes crinkled ever so slightly and an arrogant smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, yeah,” he said, huffing with a snide laugh. He pushed away from the table and stood, and despite his short stature Bulma noticed that he cut an imposing figure: all bulk and attitude with an impressive widow's peak that seemed to get him a permanent scowl. He stared at her for a moment, a sneer still ghosting his lips.

"You should watch where you're standing next time, then," he finally said, and walked away, intentionally pushing past her with his shoulder. Bulma stumbled slightly, bumping into the table, before immediately swinging around to watch his back retreat through the classroom door. Shocked outrage smacked itself over her face.  _What gall_! Bulma had never been treated so rudely, even by people she didn't really get along with. She tended to be a little bossy, yes, and maybe even a tad temperamental, but she was also pretty good at being self-reflective and realizing when she'd deserved less than stellar treatment; in this case, she really didn't think she'd done anything wrong.

Bulma stewed for a moment, clutching her hands into little fists in frustration and seriously considering running after him for a good whack upside the head. Instead, she closed her eyes and exhaled slowly through her nose, deciding now would be a good time to go to the registrar's office to get her schedule sorted out. As though the worthless Spanish lesson hadn’t been bad enough, the horrifying prospect of being stuck sitting next to that jerk all semester resolutely helped urge her out the door and across campus to the office. 

****** 

"What do you mean I HAVE to take the Spanish class?" Bulma spat irritably at the girl sitting behind the circulation desk in the main campus welcome office. Her short blue hair was frizzing from the awful humidity outside after having to run all over campus all day between classes and her face was scrunched up in annoyance, all in all giving her a manic appearance. "I'm an engineering major! There is absolutely no reason for me to need a language class!" 

"I understand that, ma'am," the young girl behind the desk squeaked at her, thumbing her glasses back up the bridge of her nose, "but it's a university requirement - all graduates, regardless of major, must have at least one semester of language credits. You only have two semesters left, counting this one, so the registrar put you in a default class that fit the rest of your schedule." 

Bulma growled, the hand she had resting atop the countertop flattening against it as she leaned forward towards the girl. "Can I not take one next semester instead?" she asked as her mind raced to think up an alternative arrangement. Maybe if she had a couple extra months to figure out a loophole she could avoid the requirement altogether. 

But the girl shook her head squarely before she could even finish her question. "No, ma'am. Entry level language courses are only offered in the fall. Spring semester foreign language credits all have prerequisites for prior classes," she explained patiently. Bulma groaned loudly, seeing her options disappearing before her eyes. After the terrible afternoon she’d had, she had all of one nerve left and this girl was plucking it like a guitar string. 

"What about an online class? Are there any virtual language classes I can take instead?" she asked, starting to feel a little desperate. The girl paused for a moment. Bulma’s hopes soared as she watched the girl tapping something into her computer and waiting before shaking her head again. 

"No," she apologized as Bulma covered her face with her hands. "There is an online class, but it's full...” she paused, moving her paused around, “…as are the other two entry level options for French and German." 

"Basically, what you're telling me is if I drop this class, I won't graduate in the spring," Bulma said flatly, letting her hands fall before her to stare at the girl, who nodded sadly. 

"Yes, that's what it looks like," she said, looking at Bulma with pity before adding, "I'm sorry. I know it's not ideal."

“You have no idea,” Bulma grumbled under her breath as she grabbed her bag. She stood in front of the desk for a moment, trying to think of another question to ask, before relenting and turning to leave. “Thanks anyway.”

She walked back to her dorm slowly, thinking over the situation in any attempt to find some way out of taking the language requirement. She really did not have the time or energy to be wasting on something as useless as foreign language, especially as a senior. Her classes had gotten progressively more difficult as the semesters pressed on, and at this point in her college career she was dedicating hours on end to schoolwork every week just to keep her head above water. She loathed to think what exams would be like. Thinking about trying to manage Spanish lessons and coursework on top of that ridiculous workload made the space behind her eyes pulse dully. The only thing that made her schedule worthwhile was the fact that she enjoyed the subject matter; being forced into something obnoxious was going to test the limits of her sanity.

Her preoccupation must have been clearly visible, as Eighteen stared at her from the kitchen as she walked in the door of their little apartment. “Jesus, what happened?” she asked, arching a perfect brow at Bulma, who glared at her miserably. “You look like someone died.”

“Scheduling issue landed me in a Spanish class I can’t get out of,” she complained drearily, dumping her bag on the floor next to the couch. She turned to look at her friend again, despondent. All the excitement she’d had that same morning about returning to classes had been zapped from her in the span of two hours. “I don’t think I’m any good at languages, Eighteen, and I really don’t have the energy to spend on something so useless with all my other actually important classes.”

“Are you worried about having time for it, or understanding it?” her friend asked, leaning up against the kitchen counter and taking a drink from the glass she had nearby. Bulma shrugged at the question, sitting on the arm of the couch.

“A little bit of both, I guess,” she mumbled, feeling a little dramatic under Eighteen’s critical gaze. She fidgeted nervously with the edge of the couch, trying to deflect the judgement. “Time is definitely an issue but also, I really wasn’t following whatever was happening in class today…”

“Oh Bulma, _please_ ,” Eighteen said, rolling her eyes and flipping one of her hands around in the air emphatically, the other on her hip. “You’re practically a genius. Look at all the crazy technical crap you manage every day, with mechanics and computers and who knows what else. If anybody can figure out an entry level Spanish class, it’s you,” she dismissed, plainly not worried. “You’re honestly being dramatic. I’m surprised – you’re normally way more self-assured.”

Bulma scrunched her nose a little in response, clearly not enjoying the critique. She just wanted to wallow in self-pity a little – was that so bad? “I guess. I just had a lot of high hopes for this semester – it’s my last year before graduation! It’s got me stressed,” she admitted, blowing her bangs out of her face from the side of her mouth before it turn downwards into a scowl. “Plus the professor gave us assigned seats and the guy I got landed next to seems like a real douche. I’d really just rather not deal with it at all.” 

“Let’s not deal with it right now then,” Eighteen offered, walking over to Bulma and holding her hands out in front of her for Bulma to take. “I was just about to go to Krillin’s martial arts practice. Want to come and watch with me? Then we can go with the guys to get some dinner afterwards.”

Bulma considered for a moment – putting on pajamas to crawl into bed and eat some ice cream seemed awfully tempting right now – before relenting, taking Eighteen’s hands in her own and pulling herself up from the couch. “Okay,” she agreed half-heartedly. She really had had a long, busy day, and this scheduling fiasco had left her agitated and tired. Seeing her friends would do her well. “I’ll come.” 

********* 

The sports complex housed on the western side of South City University’s campus was undeniably impressive; besides its incredible size, the facilities themselves were diverse and well equipped. There were, of course, fields outside for baseball and soccer, but the inside arenas also had spaces for swimming, gymnastics, basketball, and martial arts, as well as a few other less popular sports that Bulma wasn’t as familiar with; truth be told, she wasn’t the most athletic. The gym was also housed here, and included a locker room, showers, and a sauna. Bulma gazed through the glass doors into the gym as she and Eighteen walked by on their way to the martial arts arena. There were considerably more people there now than there had been the other day when they’d gone together.

“I’m so happy I managed to avoid morning classes this semester,” Eighteen was saying as they walked through the double doors to enter the impressive hall where martial arts practices and tournaments were held. It was a large space with high ceilings, doors at either end and spectator stands lining the sides. A large, blue mat covered the majority of the ground, presumably for safety. Around twenty men were gathered in the middle of the space, sitting on the floor around a man Bulma recognized as Coach Kaio. He appeared to be giving them a pep talk, but Bulma couldn’t hear what he was saying from where she and Eighteen were climbing the stands to have a seat.

“You do realize you’ll have to get up early in the real world, right? When we graduate and you get a job, I mean?” Bulma commented, looking at Eighteen. Eighteen laughed and gave her a mocking look.

“You do remember I plan on going to law school, right?” she said, tucking a piece of her white blonde hair behind her ear. “I’ve easily got another six years left in school. As long as I can manage my schedule, this night owl is good to go for the foreseeable future.”

“Yeah, well…” Bulma trailed off, watching as the guys on the floor stood up and broke off into pairs for what appeared to be some sparring practice. Her eyes raked over the group, trying to pick out their friends. Goku was easy to spot; his ridiculously messy hair was hard to miss and caught Bulma’s eye in seconds. He was jumping up and down in preparation on the far side of the matted area, against who appeared to be Piccolo. Despite their ridiculous height difference, with Goku being about average and Piccolo looming far over him, Bulma knew the taller man didn’t have a chance. 

“Looks like Krillin’s fighting the only other midget in the place,” Eighteen remarked with a laugh, looking farther to the right. Bulma’s gaze followed to find Krillin, fists raised and ready against another guy who, while definitely being taller, didn’t have the advantage by much. Bulma stared for a moment before gasping out loud dramatically. 

“Ohmygod!” she hissed, smacking Eighteen’s arm repeatedly and pointing down at the pair, “Eighteen, that’s that asshole I told you about from my Spanish class!” He was dressed differently from earlier, wearing a pair of cinched ankle sweatpants and a fitted tank, but the upward wave of hair he sported made it irrefutable.  He was staring at Krillin indolently, not even bothering to square up, arms crossed over his chest. Truthfully, he looked bored. Eighteen stared, her brow knitting together slightly.

“You mean the one you said you got stuck sitting next to?” she asked, looking down at him skeptically. Bulma nodded her head fervently, tearing her eyes away from him to look at her friend.

“Yes! I saw him in the gym the other day, too, when I went with you. I bumped into him accidentally and he was a huge jerk about it,” she said. Eighteen was still looking down at the pair on the floor as Coach Kaio blew his whistle to signal the start of the mini matches.

“Maybe he was just in a bad mood. You don’t know that – Oh, jeez! Oh my god!” she squealed, suddenly, quickly raising her hands to cover her eyes. Bulma whipped her head back around to see what was wrong.

The sparring session had begun, and Krillin was not faring well. Despite his size, Eighteen’s beau was surprisingly muscular, and as he had been training in martial arts since childhood he was usually able to hold his own in a match. Currently, however, he was desperately on the defensive as Mr. Jerk laid into him mercilessly. Although these practices were usually casual, an opportunity to practice reflexes or some light defensive work, Krillin’s opponent had apparently not gotten the memo. From the minute the whistle had sounded, Jerk had gone after him with a flurry of insistent offensive attacks, his hands a blur as they moved. Every time Krillin was able to raise his forearm in defense, the other guy got him with a knee, or a shin, or an elbow on the other side, or snuck a fist into his lower stomach. As Eighteen squeaked next to her, Bulma watched as a hard right hook connected with the side of Krillin’s face, sending him stumbling to the floor. He stayed down, breathing hard.

“God, is that kind of intensity really necessary?” Eighteen pondered, watching through her fingers, a concerned look on what Bulma could see of her face. “It’s just practice! They’re supposed to be on the same team!”

“Yeah, dude, I don’t know…” Bulma commented slowly, watching the scene with morbid curiosity. Despite the empathy she felt for her friend who had obviously gotten pummeled, she couldn’t help but also be a little impressed by his challenger. As Krillin gasped for air on the ground, Spiky Hair returned to his stance a few feet away, arms crossed, looking uninterested. He didn’t even appear to be winded. She eyed his shapely shoulders and biceps, on display thanks to his tank top, and wondered who the hell he was. If he was on the martial arts team, why had she never seen him before a few days ago? There was no way he was new to the sport, and if he was this good, why wouldn’t he have been on the team before now? Was he new to the school? Inquisitiveness ravaged her senses.

The other matches quickly came to an end, and Coach Kaio re-paired them up with new opponents. His voice rang clearly across the space as he pointed and shouted for the boys to pair up. “You two, over there,” he called, sending a grimacing Krillin to a different section of the mat to match up with a new competitor. “Piccolo, you head that way. Goku, you pair up with Vegeta,” he instructed, pointing to a mat in the corner. Bulma’s eyes followed, and saw he was sending Goku to fight the jerk. So that was his name – Vegeta. Hmm.

“Oh, look! Oh, I hope Goku destroys him,” Eighteen said, her elbows resting on her knees and her chin on her palms. She eyed the pair, eyes gleaming mischievously. “He’s gonna dent his face in, I can feel it.”

Bulma said nothing, instead choosing to watch intently. She was confident in Goku’s abilities, yes, but she was also interested to see how this new guy managed. Krillin was no opponent when compared with Goku, who consistently had the upper hand regardless of who he was paired with; still, the new guy seemed to know how to handle himself pretty well. She waited patiently for them to begin, and held her breath as she heard the coach blow his whistle. 

Neither Goku nor Vegeta moved immediately, watching each other, Goku bouncing side to side on his toes and Vegeta standing motionless. The other pairs around them had already sprung into action. A few more seconds ticked by before Goku finally must have seen a weak point and made his move, lunging forward with an outstretched fist. Vegeta blocked with his right forearm and ripped his other elbow upwards in an attempt to get Goku across the face, but that too was hindered as Goku raised his arm to meet it. They sparred back and forth for a few moments, neither man able to get a hit in, before Goku connected his shin with Vegeta’s left side. The shorter man stumbled, but caught himself before falling. Surprise blossomed across his face for the briefest of moments before puckering into a nasty scowl. He turned and went back after Goku without hesitation. 

The onslaught of attacks that sprang forth next would have easily ruined any other adversary, but Goku  _just_  managed to defend against them, taking a scuffed punch to the ear but nothing more serious. The two backed up away from each other for a moment, panting slightly as they tried to find a weakness in the other, before Goku lunged again.

“BEAT HIS ASS, GOKU!” Bulma hollered from the stands, pumping her fist in the air in encouragement. She could have been on a different planet for all the attention they paid her. Goku went for the other man’s side, but was blocked, and in turn had to bring his own forearm up against what was almost a foot to the head. Vegeta pulled back, prowling, before pulling up close again and managing a few punches to Goku’s ribs. Wincing, Goku started pulling back before suddenly heaving his body into a roundhouse, laying a fist into the side of Vegeta’s jaw. He went sprawling backwards, waving his arms to catch his balance as the whistle sounded again, and Bulma hooted loudly.

“Yeah, Goku!” Eighteen called, clapping her hands loudly. Their friend turned to look up at them with a dazed look on his face, and upon realizing who they were, grinned widely and waved. A few feet away, Vegeta was glowering darkly, hands jammed into his pants pockets

The rest of the practice was fairly uneventful; the coach had them run laps, then sprints, before having them do sets of push-ups and sit-ups and a few other calisthenics. Bulma watched her friends, chatting ideally with Eighteen, and occasionally glancing down at Vegeta. Despite his piss poor attitude, there was no denying he was striking, and the way his muscular body completed the exercises with such ease was hard to ignore. He was obviously in great shape; while several other members of the team panted and groaned, Vegeta remained stoic, completing the ordered exercises easily before moving onto the next set.

Eventually the coach dismissed them, and both Goku and Krillin meandered over towards the stands. Bulma couldn't help but notice Vegeta disappearing wordlessly into the locker room before refocusing her attention on her friends.

"Hey, guys," Goku was greeting them amiably, swinging his sweat towel over his shoulder. Krillin greeted Eighteen with a hand squeeze, looking exhausted. "Wanna get some grub with us after we hit the showers?"

"Yeah, that was the plan," Bulma agreed, eyeing what appeared to be a bruise purpling under Krillin's left eye. "Might want to get some ice on that beforehand, though, Krillin. People will think Eighteen abuses you." 

"Is it visible?" he griped, reaching up to touch it. Eighteen slapped his hand away, chiding him for messing with it. "That first match kicked my ass. We're not actually supposed to go one hundred percent during those practices but I really had to try my best just to avoid getting murdered, and I don't think he was even at half power!"

"He definitely knew what he was doing," Goku agreed, laughing a little as he cupped the back of his neck with his palm. "I got lucky, but he gave me a run for my money. In a real match, I think he could best me. Glad we're on the same team!"

They chatted for another moment or so before the two boys retreated to the locker room. Bulma and Eighteen turned to exit the arena and wait for them outside. "I'll meet you over by the locker room exit," Eighteen said, turning once they'd walked through the double doors, "I want to run to the bathroom first."

Bulma nodded as her friend walked in the other direction towards the public restroom, continuing her own path around the side of the building where there were back exits from the showers. She took a seat on the bench situated nearby and pulled out her phone to scroll idly while she waited.

A few moments ticked by indolently as Bulma skimmed through uninteresting photographs of high school acquaintances she would have long since forgotten had it not been for social media. The sun had begun its lazy descent towards the horizon, and she could hear cicadas buzzing happily in the humid summer evening. A slight breeze blew her bangs into her face as she heard the locker room door open. 

“Wow, that was fast --” she started to say, before looking up and choking on the rest of her sentence. Vegeta glowered down at her, now in a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, his gym bag slung over his shoulder. Bulma stared lamely back at him, eyes wide, momentarily frozen under his critical gaze. He studied her for a moment before scoffing audibly and turning to walk away without comment. She paused for a moment before an indignant look came over her face, not liking the feeling she was being dismissed. “HEY! Wait a minute!” 

Vegeta ignored her, continuing his way down the sidewalk. Now out of view of his analytical gaze, she felt emboldened to grasp hold of this situation and get the upper hand. She was not going to be scoffed at and patronized all semester – especially when she had no clue what this demeaning treatment was due to. She launched herself off the bench and lunged after him. “Vegeta! Wait!”

At the mention of his name, he stiffened, and came to a stop on the sidewalk without turning. She hurried over, grabbing the elbow of his hoodie to ensure he wouldn’t walk away again. “Hey, listen, I really think we got off on the wrong foot somehow -” she started to explain, before he wrenched his arm out of her grasp and shot her a withering look. 

“Don’t touch me,” he snapped, as though she hadn’t just touched his sweatshirt but had instead smothered dog shit all over it. “What do you want?”

“I, uh,” she started, perplexed at his vehemence. She hesitated for a moment before swallowing and stubbornly deciding to start over. She’d be damned if this grouch was going to make her bad day any worse. She fixed a vexed look on her face and glared right back at him. “I’m sick of you being an asshole to me for no reason,” she retorted. If being nice to him wouldn’t work, then she’d cop an attitude, too. “And I want you to cut the shit out. We obviously run in a lot of the same circles, and I’ll be damned if you’re going to treat me like dirt every time we happen to be in the same place!”

The scowl was still plastered on his face, but Bulma thought she saw the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth before he scoffed. “Tch! Oh, really?” he growled back at her, turning ever so slightly to face her. “Well, lucky for me, I don’t give a shit what you want. Stay out of my way and it won’t be an issue.” 

He turned to go, but Bulma forcefully grabbed his elbow again to prevent his escape. Vegeta reeled back, glaring at her and opening his mouth to snarl something before another voice cut him off.

"Bulma?" Goku called from a ways back down the sidewalk, at the locker room exit door. He was looking at the two of them quizzically, an innocent expression of confusion plastered over his handsome features. "You coming?"

"Just a minute," she said haughtily. Her eyes snapped back at Vegeta. "Look. I can't control the way you treat me, or anyone else," she said briskly, an edge to her tone and her brow furrowed grumpily, "but the next time you're an asshole, I will not be complacent. Don't underestimate my ability to make a huge, embarrassing scene in public. And don't forget - I know where you live."

Bulma released him abruptly, and turned on her heel to catch up with Goku without another look over her shoulder.  She would not give Vegeta the benefit of knowing she was annoyed. The old adage "the best revenge is living well" had always been a motto of hers, and it had worked well for her in the past; nothing hurt naysayers more than seeing someone they disliked happy. With that in mind, Bulma smiled at Goku, hooked her elbow with his own, and began leading him down the path towards where Eighteen was walking back from the restroom. To hell with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize as I post these chapters that they are quite extensive... so, apologies if long installments aren't your thing.
> 
> I have several chapters already pre-written, in the hopes of being able to update regularly without having to rely on my schedule and availability. Thanks for making it through to chapter two!


	3. A Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that some of the ages and timing here don't add up to what would be canon. Thus why this is an AU. :) Also, apologies for any typos. I try to edit myself as best I can, but some things still sneak by.
> 
> Separately, I often find myself playing out scenes and scenarios in my head for different stories based on whatever music I currently have on rotation, which is what's included at the end. Look up the lyrics and give the song a listen if you'd like - I promise it's lovely!

“You don’t know where I live.”

For a moment, Bulma didn’t even realize the comment had been directed at her. She was doubled over the table, head propped up by her left hand as she stared down at the Spanish grammar exercises on the worksheet in front of her.  _Now, when we’re talking to present ‘you’, that means the verb loses the ‘ar’ at the end and gets an ‘as’, right? But, in this case I’m talking to an elder so that means it’s formal, which means it isn’t ‘as’, it’s ‘a’… But isn’t this verb irregular? What do I do with that?_  Her eyes squeezed shut in annoyance and she breathed out her nose, trying to collect herself, before her brain registered that her grumpy neighbor had said something. 

She raised her head to look over her shoulder at him testily. She hadn’t seen Vegeta since their minor altercation on Monday, and whether that was intentional on his part or not, she’d thought it for the better. Bulma had been dreading her Thursday language class since she had found out she wouldn’t be able to drop it, and the prospect of dealing with his shenanigans had only made it worse. She raised an eyebrow at his comment, not understanding. “What are you talking about?”

Vegeta was leaning back in his chair, looking down absently at the pen he was toying with, spinning it back and forth between his fingers. He was wearing a pair of dark jeans and a simple blue t-shirt, which Bulma couldn’t help but notice stretched ever so slightly over his sculpted pectoral muscles. She forced herself to ignore the sight, instead focusing compulsorily on his face. His eyes flicked up at her. “I said, you don’t know where I live.”

She paused for the slightest moment before narrowing her eyes slightly and turning to face him. “Yes, I do. Don’t you remember the other day, I saw you and those other two buffoons arguing in the courtyard?” she said matter-of-factly. “It’s the apartment diagonal from mine, just one floor down.” She wasn’t sure if he was a forgetful moron or if he was just playing with her somehow.

He smirked at her from his leisurely position in his chair, making it clear it was the latter. “I don’t live there,” he explained, enunciating slowly as though he were talking to a simpleton. He twirled the pen between his thumb and forefinger. “Those other two ‘buffoons’ do, not me. You should do a little research before throwing out threats like that - otherwise they don't mean anything.”

Bulma watched him silently, a retort to that news not immediately coming to mind. She hadn't considered that maybe he had just been visiting that apartment - that, by god, he had  _friends_  - but now that she thought about it, to her knowledge all the dorms in her complex were indeed only doubles. Her brow furrowed slightly as she realized he was probably telling the truth. Honestly, she had really considered throwing some eggs at his door a few nights back and was a bit agitated that was no longer an option. “So? Why do I care where you do or don’t live,” she scoffed at him, turning in her seat again so she was no longer facing him. “Stop bugging me and do your damn worksheet.” She reached over to the paper he’d abandoned upside down on the table and turned it over, intending to belittle him for not having started; however, she was surprised to see it already full of neat, block handwriting. She balked and turned her head to look at him again. “Wait – how are you done already?”

Vegeta cocked an eyebrow at her, his expression mild. “How are you not?” he inquired back, peering over at the attempted progress she’d made on her own sheet. She felt an embarrassed flush creep up her neck and shot him a dirty look.

"I'll have you know I'm not even supposed to be in this stupid class," she snapped defensively, slapping her hand childishly over her worksheet to keep his critical eyes from seeing her obvious lack of progress. "I didn't  _choose_  to be here! It was a scheduling mistake and it's too late to fix now."

Vegeta continued to stare at her, looking unimpressed. "Is that the excuse you're using for your ineptitude?" he asked flatly, tossing his pen onto the table and stretching his arms above his head, catlike. Bulma's cheeks reddened, though she was unsure if it was due to the insult or the quick peek of tanned, muscular abdomen his shirt revealed as he extended his arms upward. Again, she focused pointedly on his face.

"I am  _not_  inept," she said hotly, turning back to refocus on her grammar exercises. "I'm at the top of my graduating class. I've made a lot of contributions to the mechanical engineering program here - head over to the faculty of science building and you'll see. My face is everywhere!"

This was true. During her tenure at SCU, Bulma had been involved in a large number of engineering projects that had garnered national attention on the engineering front. A few of her research papers had been published in academic journals, and she'd appeared a handful of times in the newspaper for contributions she'd made to either government projects or local companies on behalf of the university. This was especially impressive due to the fact that she was a mere undergraduate student; usually, it was only people in the Master's program and above that garnered such attention. As was such, certificates of recognition with her name and photographs of her smiling face, sometimes in larger groups and other times alone, scattered the halls and showcases in the engineering wing of the science building. One of her professors had once joked that after she graduated they would have to rename that branch of the building in her honor. Bulma was secretly holding him to that promise.

She might as well have told Vegeta she was reigning queen of the lizard people, though, for all he seemed to care. "Tch. A lot of good that's doing you here, though, huh?" he commented wryly, leaning forward against the table to burrow his face in his crossed arms, and thus resolutely ending the conversation. Bulma stared at the back of his head, momentarily contemplating smacking him, before the professor began speaking at the front of the class and she forced herself to turn and listen.

They reviewed the answers to the worksheet and then moved on to some listening activities. These were the most loathsome of all the classwork Bulma had been forced to do so far in this godforsaken class. She was barely keeping a grasp on the written dialogues, so trying to understand whatever the voices on the professor's computer speakers were blathering about at a thousand miles an hour was damn near impossible. She pulled her book towards her and looked at it derisively for a moment before flipping to the correct page. She'd had to run over to the bookstore earlier that morning to buy the stupid thing, and hadn't even gotten a good price for it; it came with some obnoxious software and had to be bought brand new, meaning it had come out to over two hundred godforsaken dollars.

"Okay, so we're trying to figure out Juan's daily schedule based on his conversation with a friend. Mainly the activities he does, but if you can catch the times as well, that's great. Here goes the first listen," Professor Snyder said from the front of the classroom, pressing something on her keyboard and leaning over to turn up her speaker. "Remember, all, we're on page fourteen, exercise number two." A chime sounded, signaling the start of the first track. Bulma screwed up her face in concentration, trying her damndest to pick out any context clues to understand just what time it was that 'Juan' got up in the morning as he began firing off line after line of incomprehensible babble. A woman chimed in after a moment, spitting more nonsense, and then Juan spoke again. Surely the answer had to be somewhere in there - it seemed like the woman had asked a question, and he was responding? She thought for sure she had heard  _despertar_... What was that? Was Juan  _desperate_  for something? She could relate.

Bulma glanced over at Vegeta, assuming she'd see him sleeping, but was surprised to see he was instead finishing up the exercise and tossing his pen to the side. She stared, the audio temporarily forgotten. How could he possibly have understood anything they were saying? She looked around at the other students surrounding them and was relieved to see she didn't appear to be the only one who was a little lost: a girl at a neighboring table had her hands on either side of her face, staring blankly at the open book in front of her, and another kid was chewing on his pen cap, his face crumpled in concentration. Vegeta, though, seemed the epitome of nonchalance, and had returned to his signature pose of head in his arms, eyes firmly shut. Bulma was again overwhelmed with the urge to hit him over the head with her book.

As the class ended and people began filing out of the classroom, Bulma packed her things back into her bag and glanced at her neighbor out of the corner of her eye. Something nagged at the back of her mind, urging her to ask him about how the hell he completed the coursework with such ease, but her unforgiving pride smashed that notion before the words even formed at her lips; no way was she going to give him the satisfaction of knowing she was confused. His arrogance was already palpable, and she was loath to think of how insufferable he would be dare she ask him for help. 

She was pulling her bag onto her shoulder when her phone began to vibrate loudly on the table, blaring the obnoxious pop song she had chosen as her ringtone. She picked it up hastily as Vegeta walked past her towards the door, and wondered if the stupid smirk on his face had anything to do with her choice of song. She ignored him. "H - hello?"

"Bulma Briefs, do you know how long it's been since I've heard your voice?" a bossy tone demanded on the other end of the phone line. Bulma smiled in spite of herself, recognizing the voice immediately. "Just what kind of best friend are you?"

"Chi Chi, you do know the phone works two ways, right?" she replied, turning to walk out of the classroom herself. "If you missed me, you could have always just call me yourself."

Her friend scoffed loudly. "You do remember I'm a mother, right?" she said haughtily, indignation clear in her tone. "I barely have time to keep up with the laundry, much less make social calls. It wouldn't kill you to drop by to visit every once in a while!"

"And just when would I do that?" Bulma asked pointedly as she meandered slowly down the hallway towards the building exit. Spanish had been her last class of the day, and now she had planned to go to the library to get some work done on a bio-computation project she'd been assigned earlier that morning. "When I'm at school I barely have time for myself, and when I'm home - ugh, you know what it's like when I'm at home. Any idle moment is spent either with Papa in the lab, or helping Mama with whatever nonsense she has going on."

"I don't care! You need to pencil me into your busy schedule," Chi Chi complained. Bulma smiled again. Since she had begun going to school in South City, she and Chi Chi had been unable to see each other as often as they would have liked, it was true. In high school they had been practically inseparable, even after she had given birth to Gohan. In fact, Bulma had probably spent more time with Goku's kid as a baby than he had, what with all his martial arts competitions and practices. Though Bulma loved Eighteen, there was no denying that Chi Chi was her closest and most cherished friend; there were times that Bulma thought Chi Chi knew her better than she even knew herself. Nostalgia swept over her momentarily, and she realized just how much she missed her.

"You're right - I'm sorry," she allowed. She'd stopped walking down the hallway and was leaning up against a wall, one arm crossed over her midsection. "How are you? How's Gohan? He must be - jeez, he's gotta be, what, four by now? I'm the worst aunt ever."

"Yep, he'll be five come May," Chi Chi agreed, the annoyance immediately dissipating from her voice as the subject changed to her son. From an outsider's perspective, it would be seem that Goku was the source of all of Chi Chi's problems; however, it would be equally apparent that Gohan was the source of all her happiness. Albeit being a bit whiny - which Bulma was inclined to forgive, given his age - he was an intelligent, considerate little boy with an inquisitive nature and a generally calm demeanor. It was really rather difficult not to be taken with him. "He's already started school this year. You wouldn't even recognize him."

"Gosh. I'll have to come back with Goku the next time he heads home to visit," she promised, making a mental note to ask him when he next planned to return. "I miss you guys! How have things been? Any news?"

"Things have been going well, overall," her friend said, sounding pleasant. "Gohan has been doing really well in his class, and my Papa's health is good. I'm just fine, of course. If I could only get Goku to get a damn job..."

Bulma laughed. Chi Chi had been trying for ages to have Goku quit competing and settle for a desk job. It had obviously not worked out well for her. "Cheech, give it up. If there's one thing that boy loves, it's fighting. You know that," she chided, her tone teasing. "And you never know! Something good might come out of it. He's getting a lot of notoriety around here."

"Pfft. Notoriety doesn't pay my bills. A real man would live at home and make some money to take care of his family," Chi Chi griped back, and then paused. She was silent for a moment before she spoke again, and when she did, her tone had changed slightly. "Hey Bulma, speaking of men, I wanted to mention something to you. Something happened the other day - nothing big, of course - I mean, it's probably nothing, but still, I - I wanted to let you know at least..."

Bulma tensed, more at her friend's gentle tone than her words. Chi Chi tended to be rather severe even when she was being affectionate, so an attempt at tenderness did not bode well. "What is it?" she asked warily. 

"Well, see, the other day I was at the mall with Gohan - I was trying to get some clothes shopping done before classes started, because this boy will just not stop growing, I mean I must go through a new wardrobe every six months - and I ran into Tien. You remember Tien, right? Big, bald, quiet?" Chi Chi babbled, sounding apprehensive. Bulma knew she got overly talkative when she was nervous. "He says hi, by the way. And well, we were chatting about school and everything, since he's about the graduate, too. He's majoring in something weird, though... Sociology? Psychology? Whatever it was, I really think he's going to have a hard time finding a job after school, I mean really, what does a degree like that even offer job-wise? And, well, when I mentioned that you would be finishing up soon, too, and how I figured you'd be moving back home afterwards, he mentioned - well, I mean, he said something just a bit weird."

There was a long pause. Bulma waited for her to continue for several moments, feeling paranoid, before blurting, "Chi Chi, c'mon, you're killing me here. What's going on?"

"He said that Yamcha's been talking about you a lot lately, and he thought you guys were on the mend," her friend blurted, rushed. "And it just really - I don't know, it surprised me! Bulma, you have a right to your own life and everything and I certainly don't want to tell you what to do, but please tell me that isn't true. I mean, Yamcha? Sure, he's a nice enough guy when he's just your friend, but c'mon! Your breakup was just so  _awful_ , it really was, and I remember how much you cried when it happened - I just really don't want to see you like that again, and you seem to be doing so well now with school and everything - " Her had words begun to jumble together, frantic.

"Wait - what?" Bulma burst out laughing, cutting her friend's diatribe short. It took her several moments to regain enough composure to talk again, and when she did, it was through chuckles. "Oh, Chi Chi,  _please_ ," she gasped, snickering, one of her hands on her hips as relief washed over her. "Are you kidding me? I have no idea what Tien's talking about. I seriously haven't spoken to Yamcha in, like, two years. That ship has long since sailed, I assure you."

There was an audible sigh of relief on the other end of the phone line. "Oh, thank  _god_!" Chi Chi gushed. "I was really questioning your sanity there for a while. I mean, even if you still did have feelings for him, there's no way you could ever trust him again..."

"Exactly," Bulma agreed, wiping her eyes free of tears of mirth and clearing her throat slightly. She started walking down the hallway again, exiting through the double doors at the end. "But I don't have feelings for him, Chi Chi, honestly. Don't worry about that, really. Zero chance of that happening. God! Is that all? You seriously had me worried!"

"I'm so relieved to hear you say that. Really. If you'd told me it was true, I was honestly going to get on the next bus down to South City to kick some sense into you."

They laughed together, and Bulma shook her head. "Yeah, I don't doubt that for a minute..."

*****

Bulma quickly fell into the comfort of her school schedule, and days passed by lazily, one soon melting into another. She had a pretty reliable agenda going: there were classes all day on Mondays and Thursdays, till noon on Tuesday and Friday, and from one o'clock till four on Wednesdays. During the time she wasn't in a classroom on these days, she spent a generous amount of time either in the library or in one of the many science labs the engineering faculty had open to the students for use. Luckily, these facilities were free to be used at any time of day: much like the aforementioned library, where students could be found at literally any time, the science labs were often littered with stressed out scholars, fully immersed in whatever calculation or project they were striving to finish before a fast approaching deadline. Bulma herself had spent many nights pouring over texts in the cool confinement of a secluded 'focus room', as they called them, periodically scribbling updates on the whiteboard on the wall or erasing previous errors in judgement before running across the hall to the proper lab to make the updates to whatever mechanism she was building. It was tiring, yes, and - like Eighteen reminded her  _every single time_  she came home at an absurd hour still wearing her lab coat - she should take better care of herself and her sleeping schedule; nonetheless, Bulma thrived on these conditions. Her very best work came in the final hours, the last stretch of time allowed to her before a submission cutoff, when she could turn in her work knowing she had done her very best and tried her very hardest. 

It was one of these sessions that had brought her to her current state of exhaustion. It was a Friday, and although she only had class for the first half of the day, she was uncharacteristically unfocused. She stared, determined, at the stout professor at the front of the classroom as he drew a diagram to illustrate whatever point he was trying to make, before blinking repeatedly in an attempt to stop her eyes from drooping. She had not slept since Wednesday night, thanks to a particularly dastardly industrial design concept paper she had spent the previous evening polishing, and was finding this mechatronics lecture - usually a favorite of hers - particularly dull. Bulma shook her head from side to side, determined to pay attention. August had come and gone, and as they moved closer towards mid-September, exams were being mentioned more and more frequently. Many of her professors had already scheduled mid-terms for just a few more weeks into the future, meaning everything being discussed in classes at this point could possibly be included. She could not afford to let her attention wander.

Bulma grabbed her pen with more vigor, and began jotting down whatever the professor was saying - something about programmable logic devices being a good solution for messy wiring. Her eyes drifted over to the adjacent notebook page as she wrote, looking at where she had taken Spanish notes the day prior. They had been learning about the preterite tense, and the situations for which she would use that as opposed to the imperfect tense. From what she had gathered, both were used to talk about past actions; what really varied was how long the past action had lasted, or whether it had a definite end. She had paid close attention to the explanation, and had turned to work on the assigned exercises afterwards only to find Vegeta's critical eyes staring at her.

She had stared back blithely, unnerved, before flatly asking, "What?" Their comments to each other were generally clipped and caustic, usually only intended to rile the other up in some way. Despite his choleric nature, Bulma had to admit she enjoyed needling Vegeta. Her insults were generally only ever received with a grumpy scoff of indignation or a roll of the eyes, or some sort of ridicule at her own expense; regardless, being able to agitate him, however slightly, made suffering through Professor Snyder's drivel a little more manageable. 

He had glared at her for another moment before saying, "Do you understand?"

This had made Bulma suspicious. They had been sitting next to each other for nearly a month now, and not once had he ever offered any concern as to her comprehension of what was obviously a tricky subject for her. She'd glanced at the exercises in his own book - which had been, annoyingly, already finished - before sliding her gaze back over to rest on his face. She had decided several weeks prior that it was good practice to not look anywhere below his shoulders, for obvious reasons: she refused to give herself the chance to be physically attracted to someone so pompous. "Yes," she'd replied slowly, still peering at him distrustfully. 

He had watched her for another moment, silent, as though trying to decide whether or not she was lying. "Good," he'd finally harrumphed, peevish, before turning to rest his head on the table with his arms. His voice muffled, he'd added, "Thought you'd never catch on."

Bulma had stared at the side of the flame of his hair, pursing her lips, before turning to start working on her own book. She'd known he would get a dig in somehow.

The screech of a chair pushing away from the table awoke Bulma with a start, and she sat upright quickly, looking around in alarm. Her mechatronics class appeared to have ended, and judging from the wet drool spot on her Spanish notes, she had fallen asleep at some point. "Goddamnit," she mumbled to herself, slamming the notebook shut in annoyance as she began packing her things away along with everyone else. She made a mental note to herself to stop by the next time this particular professor had office hours; she would need some kind of revision of whatever she was supposed to have learned that day. Oh well. At least now, she could go get some grub and take a nap before starting any homework she still had to finish for next week.

It wasn't until she was walking across campus toward the cafeteria and saw Goku that Bulma remembered she still had other things to tend to. "Bulma!" her noisy friend called, spotting her and waving broadly from where he was leisurely sitting up against a nearby maple tree. She groaned inwardly, immediately regretting the conversation she was about to be subject to. She turned and begrudgingly walked over to where Goku was lounging on the ground. He smiled up at her as she approached. "Hey! You about ready to leave?"

She scrunched her nose up at him, dumping her bag on the ground before sitting next to it. "Oh, Goku," she complained, resting her forehead on an open palm, "Goku, I am exhausted. I think I might have to reschedule for a different weekend."

Bulma didn't have to look at Goku to be able to visualize the whiny face he was making at her; his tone said it all. "Bulmaaaa," he groused, his voice jumping several octaves shrilly. "No! Chi Chi has been nagging me about this for weeks. You have to come with me! If I show up without you, she'll blame me!"

She exhaled loudly through her teeth, moving her open hand to rub at one of her eyes tiredly. "I haven't slept in over 24 hours, Goku. I wouldn't be any fun anyway," she insisted, looking at him sluggishly. He had a pain expression on his face, his eyebrows pushed together and his mouth pulled thin. "Really. I just feel asleep in my morning lecture, for Christ's sake. You know me - since when do I do that?"

"Bulma, you can sleep on the ride up! Really - I'll drive, and you can sleep the whole two hours. And with Gohan, we don't stay up late anyway! We'll be in bed by nine o'clock, I promise. Then tomorrow you can hang out with Cheech and do whatever, and on Sunday morning we'll come back. You'll have fun! Please, Bulma, please, please please please - " he trilled, grabbing her forearm and shaking her in what she assumed was an attempt to persuade her. His strength was such that she jerked back and forth violently, her head flopping from side to side.

"Oh, God, Goku - Goku, stop!" she complained, wrenching her arm from his grasp. He stared at her dolefully, his bottom lip jutting out just enough to give him the overall air of a petulant child. A child, though, that was several times her size and weight and who could probably bench press a washing machine. She glowered back at him. "I don't even have any things packed. I would have to go all the way back to my dorm, make a bag, and then leave - and I haven't even eaten!"

"That's okay!" he insisted, his sad expression changing to one of determination. Bulma groaned. "Look, I'll head over to get my car now. You run over to your place, make up a bag, and I'll pick you up straight from outside your building so you don't have to go way back across campus. I'll even grab you a couple sandwiches from the cafeteria!"

It was becoming obvious to Bulma that she was going to be here for a very long time if she planned on continuing to deny Goku what he wanted. She stared at him for another few brief moments, cantankerous, before rising from her place on the grass and brushing off the backs of her thighs. Her friend looked up at her, surprised. "Is that a yes?" he asked, his face bright with hope. She could have smacked him, and would have, had she not already known it would have zero effect on him. Bulma reached down for her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and began stalking off in the direction of her building. There was a tentative silence before Goku called out from behind her, "Thank you, Bulma! I'll be over in a bit!"  _Goddamn him._

Eighteen was laying on their couch when she arrived, her feet hanging off the end over an arm rest. She was watching TV, and from the looks of it it was the stupid reality show she was obsessed with that Bulma refused to indulge in. It had something to do with fashion, and clothes design, but the tedious drama that was constantly stewing between all the contestants irked her and made the entire program unenjoyable. Eighteen, on the other hand, was in love with it. Bulma glanced down at her as she passed the couch on the way to her bedroom: her expressed was rapt, her light eyes glued to the screen.

"I'm going home for the weekend," Bulma called in warning as she dumped her school bag on the floor of her room and instead grabbed a duffel from under her bed to start jamming clothes into. "Gonna go visit Chi Chi!"

There was no answer from the living room. Bulma fought the urge to roll her eyes. She pulled a few things from her armoire: a pair of shorts and a t shirt to sleep in, some jeans, a skirt, a tank top. The weather was definitely getting milder as the weeks blew by, but it wasn't late enough in the season to warrant a jacket quite yet. She grabbed some socks and underwear as well before heading into the bathroom to grab her toiletries.

"Goodbye, Eighteen," she called loudly a few moments later as she re-gathered her keys and opened the door to leave, bag in hand. A hand appeared over the back of the couch, waving at her vaguely as an insolent red headed woman criticized a dress someone else was working on from the television screen. Bulma firmly shut the door behind her.

She was walking around the balcony towards the elevator when something caught her eye from the courtyard and she diverted her gaze to look. It was Vegeta and the two buffoons that lived downstairs. They appeared to be coming back from the gym - at least, they were all in athletic gear. Sweat stains tarnished their muscle tanks, big dark blotches covering huge swathes of their backs and chests; that is, expect for the one with long hair, who wasn't wearing a shirt at all. Bulma couldn't help but stare. If she'd been impressed by Vegeta's figure in regular clothing, it was nothing compared to now: his wet shirt clung to his abdomen, giving her a peak at the hard definition it masked, and his brawny shoulders and biceps bulged as he reached up to rub the back of his neck. She was reminded forcefully of when she had run into him in the gym, when he'd been bare from the waist up, and wondered why he bothered wearing a top at all. Hell, if she looked like that, she'd never wear clothes again.

The other two, whom she had paid little notice to, were talking to each other loudly as Vegeta trailed behind. She watched silently from her perch atop the balcony as they disappeared into the ground floor dorm and the door shut noisily behind them. The bizarre urge to go knock on it overcame her momentarily before she pushed the thought from her mind, and continued her way to the elevator. No, there was no point in that. They weren't even friends, and from the way he acted towards her in class, seeing her when not absolutely forced to would be the last thing he wanted.

*****

Bulma slept the entire way to West City, and despite it only being before four o'clock by the time they got there, was little inclined to do anything other than lay around Goku's apartment for the rest of the day. Chi Chi had been thrilled to see her, and after dutifully giving Goku a kiss and asking him if he was hungry, she had crushed Bulma into a hug. Gohan, who had grown several inches since she'd last seen him, had waved at her from behind his mother's legs but had refused to even shake her hand. They'd had a late lunch, with Gohan shyly stealing glances at her whenever he thought she wasn't looking, and then spent the rest of the evening chatting and watching a movie. It was exactly the kind of night Bulma needed after such an exhausting week.

The next day, though, was another story altogether. Feeling fully rested and restored, Bulma had risen early and gone out to the kitchen where Chi Chi was already making breakfast for everyone. She bustled about behind the counter as Bulma leaned up against it, watching her friend pour a bowl of whipped eggs into a hot pan. "'Bout time you got up," Chi Chi chided, looking up at Bulma and smiling to let her know she was teasing. "Gohan gets up at the crack of dawn, just like his father. There's no hope for me to get any sleep after that."

Bulma gave a small laugh. "I'm sure. As soon as they're awake, they want to eat, and god forbid Goku ever use the kitchen as intended," she said, smirking, knowing Chi Chi would rather die than let her clumsy husband use anything in her kitchen. Sure enough, she scoffed loudly as she used a spatula to scramble the eggs she had cooking.

"He'd burn the house down, so no - over my dead body," she said flatly. Bulma continued to watch as she made eggs, toast, bacon, and sausage, and accepted two plates piled high with the latter two options to take over to the dining table as Chi Chi hollered into the other room for Gohan to come eat.

As Bulma sat down and began helping herself to food from the serving dishes, Gohan sidled nervously into the room, looking at her furtively. Despite his growth, he was a small child with shaggy hair, and bore a remarkable resemblance to his father. Had she not known better, should would have thought he was little Goku reincarnate. She smiled at him, trying to look inviting; it had been quite some time since they had last seen each other, and given his age she couldn't blame him if he didn't remember her too well. "Hi Gohan," she said warmly, and gestured towards the food. "You going to have some breakfast with us?"

He stared at her for a moment, hands toying with his shirt behind his back, before he nodded slowly. Chi Chi came into the room behind him and swatted him on the bottom with an open palm. "Come on, honey, Bulma's not going to bite you. Sit down and have something to eat," she admonished gently, walking past him to have a seat herself. "Your father is at the gym and won't be back for a while yet. No use in waiting for him, c'mon."

The three of them munched in contented silence for a while, Chi Chi making occasional comments about Gohan's incorrect fork usage or sloppy orange juice drinking, before the small boy made a squeaky comment of his own. "Mama," he chirped, his little face barely able to see over the side of the table, "When is grandpa going to be here?"

"Oh, honey, grandpa won't be here for a while yet," Chi Chi replied, reaching over to wipe something off the side of his face. "Probably around dinner time, but definitely before mama and Bulma leave."

Bulma stopped mid chew, raising an eyebrow at her friend. "Huh?" she said, confused. "Where are we going?"

"We're going to head out and hit the town tonight!" Chi Chi said, a grin sweeping over her face as she put another piece of toast on Gohan's plate and ignored the disgruntled look he gave her. "It's been a hot minute since we went out together, and I'm taking full advantage of you being here. Don't worry, though - Goku will be there, too."

Bulma didn't know if that was better or worse. Although Goku never got drunk or belligerent, he was a touch clueless, and had unintentionally gotten into physical altercations without meaning to on multiple occasions. One particular example stood out in her mind, when he'd accidentally bumped into an already drunk woman and made her spill her drink all over herself. Instead of apologizing or just buying her a new drink, he had taken her up on her offer to accompany her to the bathroom to make it up to her without realizing it wasn't to help her get cleaned up. The ensuing chaos, between Chi Chi trying to strangle the lady and the woman's boyfriend trying to attack Goku, gave Bulma a headache just to think about. She looked at Chi Chi warily across the breakfast table. "Anything particular in mind?"

Chi Chi shrugged, the epitome of innocence. "Nope," she said lightly, cutting a piece of sausage in two. "I figured we'd just head downtown, get a drink, maybe a bite to eat. You know, just a couple hours for old time's sake. C'mon!"

Bulma grunted in response, knowing resistance was futile. If anyone could out-stubborn her, it was Chi Chi. "We should be home early, though," she warned, looking at her friend severely. "We have to leave to head back at a decent hour tomorrow. I still have homework to do."

"Oh, Bulma, you need to live a little."

Hours later, when the early autumn sun had begun to sink towards the horizon and the air was cooler, Bulma stood unhappily in front of a mirror in Gohan's room. She'd been given his space to use for her visit, as his room had been upgraded with a regular sized twin bed not too long ago and was able to accommodate her. It was a small bedroom, with a little desk in the corner and a small arrangement of toys tucked neatly into a basket next to the bed. On the desk there was a small, framed photograph that captured a moment between Gohan and Piccolo, of all people; apparently the boy was rather fond of his father's friend, and stuck to him like glue whenever he came around. In the photograph,  a solemn looking Piccolo held Gohan upside down by one food as he laughed. The only other furnishing in the room was the floor length mirror on the back of the door that Bulma was currently staring at, wondering if she really  _had_  to go out after all. The only thing she had brought with her that would be appropriate for a night out was a dark blue skirt that stopped right above the knee, and a simple, sleeveless white blouse with buttons up the middle; frankly, she felt frumpy. Chi Chi had offered to lend her something to wear, but Bulma had envisioned her friend forcing her into a strappy, wildly colored cocktail dress and had politely declined. Surely, there had to be some happy medium between her own wardrobe and Chi Chi's; however, that didn’t seem to be in the cards for her tonight, and she knew full well that Chi Chi would never allow her to back out of their plans now. She’d have to make due with her boring outfit.

"Bulma, let's go!" A demanding tone from the living room shouted. She took one final look at herself, fluffing her short hair with her fingers, before turning off the light and leaving the bedroom.

The ride downtown took longer than Bulma had been expecting. Having grown up directly downtown, there had rarely been a need to leave the general vicinity of her childhood neighborhood: there was a grocery store a few blocks from her parents' house, the private institution where she'd gone to school was a ten-minute drive away, and even her pediatrician was just around the corner. The convenience of having everything nearby was something she had grown used to, and so having to drive forty minutes to reach the entertainment district was something of a nuisance. By the time Goku finally found a parking space and they were walking to a nearby restaurant, the sun had set completely and the artificial lights from the multitude of local business lit up the streets. People milled around them as they walked down the sidewalk, Chi Chi holding Goku's elbow as she chattered at the two of them, Bulma feeling self-conscious in her unwanted outfit and a little moody from being stuck in the car so long. Patrons ducked in and out of storefronts and bars, others lounged in designated areas of outside seating, sipping drinks or munching on appetizers. The overwhelming aroma of fried food hit Bulma's nose, and she realized suddenly how hungry she was.

The three of them merged into a small crowd of people entering the next pub they happened upon, and were soon seated at a booth near the back of the establishment. Bulma scooted into one side of the booth while Goku and Chi Chi took the other. They only had a few moments to browse the menu before a waiter descended upon them with a notepad to take their orders. Eager, Bulma ordered a number of things, while Goku and Chi Chi opted for just drinks and a side of fries, and the waiter disappeared with a promise to bring them their food in just a bit. Content to have the guarantee of food coming her way, Bulma exhaled complacently and took a look around the place. It was a dimly lit joint, with tables and booths situated along three sides of the ample space, and a bar running along the entirety of the other. Hanging lights were dangling above said bar, and a number of neon signs hung on the wall behind it. She noted a billiards table at the far end, next to what appeared to be a jukebox. There were a decent number of people there, but being that it was still quite early Bulma expected it would be packed to the gills in mere hours. 

She looked back at her friends to find Chi Chi leaning contentedly into Goku's side, his arm raised to rest around her shoulders, and suppressed a smile. Goku was dressed casually in a pair of dark jeans and a t-shirt, but Chi Chi had put on an emerald colored dress with long sleeves and a deep neckline that hugged her lean body like saran wrap. Her pin straight, black hair was tied up at the top of her head in an elegant bun. Bulma imagined they did not get a lot of quality time out like this, and so did not protest as they canoodled, lost to the rest of the room.

As she waited for her food, Bulma found herself thinking about all the homework she had waiting for her back at school. She had finished her industrial design paper, yes, but she still had several chapters of her mechatronics textbook to catch up on, especially after she'd missed most of the lecture during her in-class nap on Friday. She also had an outline to turn in on Monday for  _Vibrations, Controls, and Optimization_  - which she'd fondly taken to calling VCO for convenience's sake - as well as a number of Spanish exercises she was dreading. She was definitely getting a better grip on the class than what she'd had upon first starting, but the language class still caused her more grief than any other. While with her other, more technical classes she had a larger workload, she at least felt confident that she could do the work and do it well; with Spanish, though, she took ages completing even the simplest of assignments merely because she was riddled with self-doubt. Even if she thought her answer might be right, she had to double and triple check, terrified she'd get a low mark on any assignment. She'd also taken to studying flashcards whenever she had the chance, to ensure her vocabulary was up to speed - she imagined the upcoming mid-term would be riddled with words she might not otherwise know, and wasn't willing to take the chance of just winging it, like Vegeta surely would.

 _Vegeta_. She wondered vaguely what he was doing at that moment. She recognized abruptly that, although they had been sitting next to each other for hours at a time for over a month now, she really didn't know him at all. Sure, she knew his name, that he was involved in martial arts, that he apparently spent copious amounts of time at the gym on the daily, and that he was frustratingly, inexplicably good at Spanish - but that was about it. Their conversations only ever really amounted to vague threats and poorly masked insults. Who was he, really? Surely he had a family and friends, an entire history she knew nothing about. What did he do in his free time besides work out? What kind of music did he listen to? Did he have any siblings? What did he like to eat? Did he have a girlfriend?

She paused, her train of thought getting caught on the latter question.  _Did_  he have a girlfriend? She couldn't imagine why he wouldn't. His body was otherworldly, and his face, too, was quite striking when it wasn't furrowed into a scowl. His attitude was a possible deterrent, but surely he couldn't be as grouchy with everyone else as he was with her, or at least not all the time. There had to be someone who knew the real Vegeta that was hiding under that surly exterior, someone that he let in and allowed to know what he was really like. She refused to believe he was truly as dour and disagreeable as he came off during the few hours she saw him each week; there had to be a nicer version in there somewhere. Her heart thudded dully at the idea of a Vegeta that laughed at her stupid jokes, that waited for her outside her classes and offered to carry her bag, that spent evenings curled up with her on the couch. She mused over this idea for a several moments, before Goku started yelling and broke her from her reverie.

"Oh my God, look! Tien - TIEN! Tien Shinhan! Yamcha! Over here!" he yelped, standing as much as he could from his place in the booth and waving his arms around, a goofy grin plastered on his face. Bulma looked around wildly, trying to find the source of his hollering as dread began snaking its way up her spine. Sure enough, she spotted the familiar, hulking outline of Tien Shinhan from across the room, closely followed by who could be none other than Yamcha. Tien seemed to spot Goku just as Bulma spotted him, and to her dismay the two of them began making their way towards their little group.

“Goku!” she hissed, giving the smiling moron a dirty look. “Ever think maybe having Yamcha come join us might not be the best idea?”

Chi Chi had pursed her lips as well, and was staring disapprovingly up at his confused expression from her place next to him. He faltered, looking between the two women, clearly sensing he’d somehow stumbled into a danger zone.

“Why not? Aren’t we friends?” he asked dumbly, and Bulma could do nothing more than roll her eyes and scoff loudly before the two men were at the table.

"Hey, guys!" Yamcha said amicably, a wide smile pulling at the remarkable scar that marked his left cheek. He had cut his hair short, Bulma noticed, from the last time she had seen him in person. It suited him, truthfully. She studied his familiar features for another moment before his eyes slide over to her, and she turned her gaze hastily down to the table. "Haven't seen you lot in ages! How've you all been?"

"Oh, you know, same ol' things as always," Goku said nonchalantly, still looking a little on edge from the obvious disapproval emanating from Bulma. Chi Chi, on the other hand, was better at masking the discomfort that was quickly thickening the air around them. She smiled back at Yamcha, a grin pleasant enough to match his own.

"We're doing well! Goku is finishing up school, and Gohan just started. You probably wouldn't even recognize him - he's much bigger than the last time you saw him!" she said pleasantly. "You know, I saw Tien at the mall the other day, and we were talking about school, and he said he's graduating soon, too - that must mean you are as well, right, Yamcha?"

Bulma began to tune out their conversation, focusing intently on the napkin holder on the table in front of her. Politeness be damned; she and Yamcha had not ended on friendly terms, and although they had broken up the better part of three years ago, she still carried a lot of anxiety and stress in the memories she had from that time.

She and Yamcha had been high school sweethearts. They'd begun dating at the end of their sophomore year, and were together for two and a half years before breaking up the winter break of her freshman year of college. In retrospect, Bulma realized, they really didn't have enough in common to have dated for so long, and it would have been better had they ended things earlier; however, the damning grip of her first real love had taken control of her senses and throttled any sense of self she'd had at the time. They'd argued constantly: him saying she was too flirtatious with other guys, her insisting she was just being nice, him being emotionally distant, her getting upset for being unfairly ignored. Yamcha had often disappeared for what seemed like days at a time, and it had taken Bulma a while to realize that that was his way of punishing her for what he felt was unacceptable behavior on her part. Laugh at another guy's joke, maybe jocularly smack their arm? No calls or texts for  _you_  this weekend. He was an absolute pro at giving the cold shoulder, and then pretending like nothing had happened afterwards. The intense hot to cold of Yamcha's gaslighting had been too much for her in the end, and after a particularly nasty argument she had called things off for good.

Bulma didn't like to think about the circumstances leading up to their break-up, but if she looked for them, the memories were there, as sharp as ever, just waiting for her to turn her attention their way so they could dig their awful, shameful claws into her conscience. She had been back in West City, visiting from school for Christmas break. The holiday itself had happened several days prior, but it was still startlingly cold and wintry. Yamcha had been trying to get in touch with her all morning to no avail; in fact, she had been intentionally ignoring him, still upset with him for not having visited or even called her at all for Christmas, for what she assumed was another imagined offense on her part. He had eventually given up on calling and had just gone to her house directly. Seeing his face had weakened her resolve to stay angry, and she had felt herself giving in when he'd begun to lecture her: to tell her why he'd just  _had_  to ignore her, because she had made him angry, and it was her fault that he had reacted that way because she had instigated it in the first place. She'd stared at him as he yammered on and on, unapologetically justifying all of his own terrible behavior by putting the onus on her, and had known then that they would never work out. She couldn't condemn herself to a life of guilt and passive aggressive punishments and never knowing when he was going to get upset. It was too much.

He'd scoffed at her, dismissing her decision to break up with him as a mere moment of anger that she would soon overcome; she still remembered watching him walk down the front path of her house towards the street, sleet soaking the sweatshirt he was wearing and matting his long hair to his face. Days passed, though, and she remained firm in her choice, and Yamcha soon panicked. He'd called and texted her at all hours of the day, come by her house insisting to see her, sent her flowers and her favorite candies, even a necklace that she was positive he couldn't afford. She'd sent them all back, and after two weeks of being hounded, had gone back to school for the spring semester.

Yamcha had continued to call and write her for months afterwards, admittedly at less and less frequent intervals, until eventually Eighteen had threatened him with police action if he didn't stop harassing her altogether, at which point he'd finally left her alone. The worst part of the whole affair, though, was that Bulma was miserable the entire time. She'd spent entire nights unable to sleep, had random fits during the day where she was unable to stem an onslaught of tears - not because of the harassment, but because she  _missed_  him. She missed his sweet good morning texts, the affectionate way he'd nonchalantly tuck her hair behind her ear, the way his sweatshirts smelled like him when she put them on; she missed his knack for knowing exactly what food she was in the mood for, and his willingness to sit through ridiculous animated movies that she loved; she missed cheering him on at baseball games, the way he would put his cap on her afterwards and walk her home with his arm around her; she missed the gentle way he'd made love to her, his soft kisses on her jaw, his firm hands on her hips. Her unwillingness to get over him terrified her. The recognition that someone could make her so, so miserable, make her cry, make her question her own sanity at times, and that she would still overlook those things and love them for inane bullshit like a good morning text was horrifying. Was she really so petrified of being alone that she was willing to become a lesser version of herself to avoid it? In the end, it wasn't a lack of wanting to return to Yamcha that had kept her from doing so, but a determination to not become that person.

She had avoided him entirely from that point on, scared that she might fold and go back to him if she saw him in person again. A phone call was easy enough: she'd ignore it altogether, or just hang up. Seeing him face to face, though, was different entirely. She breathed out of her nose evenly, determined not to let something as mundane as seeing Yamcha in person shake her self-confidence. It had been at least two years since they'd last spoken, and longer still since they'd last seen each other; surely, enough time had passed that she didn't need to be worried. She was over Yamcha. Their relationship was old news. They were two entirely different people now than they had been while they were together. There was no reason not to be at least cordial to him, now that they were adults, now that it was all a thing of the past. 

"What about you, B?"

Bulma looked up, recognizing the stupid nickname only Yamcha used when addressing her. She blinked stupidly as the rest of her friends stared at her, obviously waiting for some kind of response. "Sorry - what?"

Yamcha gave her a small smile. "I said, how've you been? It's been a long time since I saw you last."

"Oh." She let herself look at him, study his features for a few moments. It was just Yamcha. Same scars, same eyes, same stupid smile. His eyes still creased the same way when he gave her the same old lopsided grin. She appreciated suddenly that her chest no longer ached when she heard his voice, and the way his nose crinkled when he was happy was no longer cute. She hesitated for a moment, then, emboldened, said, "I'm doing really well. Doing some interesting stuff at school, about to graduate in the spring. I even have a couple job possibilities lined up for after graduation. I've been good."

His smile widened in what appeared, at least to her, to be a genuine reaction. "Good. I always knew you'd do big things," he said earnestly. His gaze lingered on her own for a moment while Tien said something next to him, and Goku and Chi Chi laughed, before he looked away again. "Well, I guess we'll get going. We were just heading out to meet Launch when we saw you guys."

"Yeah, you guys know what she gets like when I make her wait. Last thing I want is to incur her wrath," Tien said, looking slightly morose at the idea of angering Launch. Bulma silently agreed with him. 

"It was great to see you all, though! Don't be strangers. Hit me up some time," Yamcha said, smiling again. He looked pointedly at Bulma one more time, crooked smile firmly on his face, before giving a small wave. "See you around, guys."

"Bye!" Goku said as the two men walked away, deftly weaving through the crowded pub and disappearing out the exit along the far wall. He stretched his muscular arms above his head, sighing happily. "See, guys? That wasn't so bad, huh?"

Chi Chi gave him a look and smacked his ribs. "Goku, you can be so inconsiderate," she chided roughly, ignoring the childish bewilderment that blossomed on his face and instead turning to Bulma. Delicately, she said, "Bulma, are you okay?"

Bulma smiled across the table at her. "Yes, Cheech, I'm fine," she said honestly, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. "Really. I'm okay."

The rest of the weekend went by uneventfully. The three of them spent the evening eating, drinking, and laughing with no further interruptions by ex-lovers, and returned home at a reasonable hour to find Gohan and Chi Chi's father asleep on the couch. Taking that as a sign that it was well past bedtime, they had all retreated to their respective sleeping quarters not long after.

The next day Bulma again rose early from bed, this time to give herself time to pack up her clothing before leaving for South City again. Chi Chi made them all breakfast, which Bulma helped clean up afterwards, and by noon she was saying her goodbyes to Chi Chi and Gohan. Chi Chi had squeezed her tightly and made her promise to come back soon, and even Gohan had wished her a safe trip back. She'd smiled, sworn that she would visit again, and then left with Goku close behind.

Traffic on the way back south was horrendous, as seemed to be the norm anymore, and it took them well over three hours to reach the sprawling South City University campus. By the time Goku dropped her off outside her dorm room and she'd sent him off with a wave, it was well after three thirty in the afternoon. She meandered up the walk and over to the elevator, then around the balcony until reaching number 204. The cool quiet of her apartment greeted her like an old friend as she entered, and she hummed happily as the door slammed behind her.  _Home, at last_.

Eighteen was either asleep or not home, as her bedroom door was shut, but Bulma didn't stop to see which as she walked down the hall to her own room. She deposited her duffel bag in the corner, resigning herself to some laundry later, and then immediately took a seat at her desk to work through some of the homework that had been weighing on her conscience for the past several days. 

It was a slow, tedious process, and by the time she had shuffled through her mechatronics reading her eyelids were beginning to feel heavy. She trudged onward, next pulling out her VCO notebook and beginning to read through her notes, shuffle through the last chapter they had worked on, and begin drafting out an outline for her upcoming mid-term paper. This took a while as well, as she knew what topic she wanted to focus on, but was unsure of what direction she wanted to take the paper in. Did she want to talk primarily about the process of and thought behind the designing of her experiment, or maybe just give a brief summary of that so she could then go into more detail of what her findings had been? It was hard to say.

Needless to say, by the time she pulled out her Spanish book, she was far from in the mood to work on any grammar exercises. The sun was setting outside, her back ached from being in the same position for too long, and she could feel a headache mounting behind her eyes. She looked down dismissively at the preterite tense practice before folding her arms over the book and laying her head down. Maybe if she could rest for just a moment, she could re-attempt the task with renewed vigor...

Bulma awoke with a start in the dark what must have been nearly two hours later. She looked around her empty bedroom and cringed as a twinge in her neck painfully protested the sudden movement. She reached over to turn on her desk lamp, and then looked behind her out the open door to see down the hall. Eighteen's bedroom door was still shut, and the rest of the apartment was cloaked in darkness. It appeared she was alone. 

Her stomach grumbled angrily. She stretched her arms languidly before grabbing her phone and heading out to the kitchen to find something to eat. There wasn't much to choose from in their kitchen, but luckily Bulma was perfectly happy with instant ramen. She set a pot of water to boil, leaned against the counter, and pulled up the ongoing chat she had with Eighteen on her phone.

 _Where are you?_  she sent her friend, offering no form of salutation.  _I'm home and it's lonely here._

Luckily, Bulma didn't have to wait long for a response. Her phone buzzed cheerfully before she even had a chance to set it down on the counter.  _I'm with Krillin_ , Eighteen's message said. _You left me all weekend. What was I supposed to do? Be home soon_.

Bulma made a face at the phone as though Eighteen could see her before setting it down on the counter to go pull out a package of ramen. She picked her favorite flavor - shrimp - and went to grab a bowl as well when her phone started buzzing noisily, her obnoxious ringtone startling her. She furrowed her brow, irritated, before snatching the phone up and answering the call quickly to silence the jangle. She really needed to change that. "Hello?"

There was no answer on the other end. Bulma pulled the phone away from her face, squinting at the screen to see who it was, but found that it was a number she didn't recognize. She frowned and put it back against her ear. "Hello? Hellloooo?" Another pause. Still no answer. "Eighteen, is this you? Are you trying to scare me? Because I swear to God - "

"B - Bulma?" The voice that responded sounded far away, distorted by static. Again, she squinted, as though that would help her figure out who it was on the other end.

"Uh, yeah? Who's this?" she said. Her water began steaming on the stove as the temperature edged closer and closer to boiling. "Hello? I can barely hear you."

" - 'orry -  _shhhhh_  - minute -"

Bulma cringed and held the phone away from her ear as the static noise continued. "Look, whoever this is, you're gonna have to call me back - " she began to say, before the static abruptly ended and a clearer voice spoke.

"Hello? Bulma? Can you hear me now?" it said. Bulma stopped opening the ramen package she had in her hand. With the interference gone, she was sure she knew that voice. "Hey, Bulma? B? Hello?"

"Is this - is this  _Yamcha_?" she asked incredulously. She tossed the ramen onto the counter, needing to grip some stable to keep hold of reality. Surely he wouldn't be dense enough to call her, would he? How did he even have her number? She'd changed it since they'd last spoken over the phone.

"Yeah, it is," came the reply from the other line. She had to stifle a groan, and let her forehead rest up against a cabinet.

"Yamcha, how do you have my number?" she said, asking the first thing that came to mind. He wavered a moment before responding.

"Krillin gave it to me," he confessed. Bulma made a mental note to murder the bald idiot the next time she saw him. There was another silence before Yamcha said, "Sorry for calling so late. I just - after seeing you on Saturday, I wanted to check in and say hi."

She breathed evenly through her nose and then exhaled through her mouth, a trick she had learned while combating panic attacks after they had broken up. Suddenly, she felt warm, like the temperature in the kitchen had gone up several degrees. She walked over to the door and let herself out to lean over the balcony. It was a cool, quiet evening, with a slight breeze that washed over Bulma’s face and blew her hair into her eyes. She inhaled again, feeling slightly calmer. “Yamcha,” she said placidly, careful to keep her voice even. “Why are you calling me?”

She heard muffled shuffling on the other end, like he was moving around and rubbing up against the receiver. “Just to say hi,” he said eventually, but his voice suddenly sounded doubtful. This was obviously not the reaction he had been hoping for. “I meant what I said on Saturday, B. I really do want us to be friends. Don’t you?”

Bulma looked up at the clear night sky, pleased to see stars dotting the black expanse above her. The moon appeared almost full, as well. Focusing on other things helped keep her mind off her quickening pulse. “Well, truthfully Yamcha… _no_ ,” she said flatly. If she was going to nip this in the butt the way she knew she had to, she would need to be honest. “I really don’t want to be friends. I’m sorry.”

Silence met her on the other end of the phone line. He was quiet for so long, she thought he might’ve hung up. When he finally spoke again, Bulma recognized indignation in his voice. “But – you looked happy to see me, B. Weren’t you?” Another pause. “Don’t you miss me?”

She squeezed her eyes shut. They were quickly sliding into dangerous territory. It was time to wrap this up. “No, Yamcha,” she answered, agitation creeping into her tone. “We broke up ages ago. It took me a long time to get over you, and I don’t want to torture myself again by being in contact with you. I’m sorry you don’t feel that way, but I – I just can’t be casual with you. I could never just be friends. Please, understand.”

Before he could answer, she cut the call, and put her phone face down on the concrete balcony rail. If he called again, she would have to block him. No was no. She’d survived their run in on Saturday, but a continued casual relationship was not something she was up for. Truthfully, they hadn’t really been friends for long before dating, so why start a real friendship now? She had a great group of friends, and was content with him not be part of it.

She looked down at the courtyard, sighing quietly, and realized for the first time that she was not alone. On the ground one floor down and diagonal from where she was standing sat Vegeta, one leg drawn up to his body to allow his arm to rest lazily on his knee. He was sitting next to the door where she knew his two friends lived, as though waiting for them to arrive. She couldn’t see through the darkness whether or not he was looking her way.

She stared at his dark figure, barely visible in the moonlight, and suddenly felt herself reddening. Had he been sitting there this entire time? Had he heard her whole conversation? Surely he had. Nobody else was out at nine o’clock on a Sunday, leaving the courtyard and surrounding balcony vacant and silent. Except for her, loudly blabbing her ex relationship drama for all the world to hear, that is. She hesitated, caught between wanting to explain herself and not wanting to make it any worse, before she heard the water she had on the stove boil over, hissing loudly. Without another thought to the matter she turned and ran back into her apartment, closing the door loudly behind her. Why she cared if Vegeta had heard her, she was unwilling to think about, but knew that if he had he would make it wholly apparent the next time she saw him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I heard there was someone but I know he don't deserve you  
> If you were mine I'd never let anyone hurt you, no, no  
> I wanna dry those tears, kiss those lips  
> It's all that I've been thinking about  
> 'Cause a light came on when I heard that song and I want you to sing it again  
> I swear that every word you sing, you wrote them for me  
> Like it was a private show, but I know you never saw me  
> When the lights come on and I'm on my own  
> Will you be there to sing it again?  
> Could I be the one you talk about in all your stories?"


	4. A Realization

Bulma’s Monday was quickly becoming a disaster.

Generally, Bulma did not buy into the whole “case of the Mondays” nonsense most people seemed to fall on when looking for something to complain about. Monday was really no different than any other day for her – she enjoyed her work, so if anything Monday was a good day, a day when she could dive back into progress she’d been making on projects and proposals that had maybe been cut short or interrupted by the appearance of the weekend. Rarely did Bulma wake up on a Monday and feel annoyed or reluctant to get out of bed, go to her 8 AM class, and get her week officially started.

Today was an exception.

After her (second) debacle with Yamcha in all of two days, Bulma had not felt quite ready to go to bed after hanging up on him, and had instead waited up for Eighteen to come home. The two of them had spent far longer than was really necessary talking over what had happened, both Saturday night at the bar as well as over the phone, dissecting it a thousand different ways, all the while affirming that he was crazy, that that was a terrible idea, that in no way, shape or form was Bulma out of line by shutting him down, point blank.

By the time Eighteen had finally excused herself to retreat to her bedroom, though, it was well after midnight, and Bulma had still not yet finished her Spanish homework. She’d resigned herself to sit down at her desk and struggle through it for the next two hours, then finally took a shower and got to bed. Turning off the lights and lying in bed, though, did not mean she’d immediately fallen asleep; she had instead found herself tossing and turning, plagued by nasty breakup memories and embarrassed by what she was suddenly perceiving as a gross overreaction on her part. She had just laughed to Chi Chi mere weeks earlier about how she was definitely over Yamcha, how there was no chance she had any feelings left for him. So, then, why was she so worked up over this inconsequential interaction? Did some part of her still want to be with him, or was it just the shock of seeing him after so long? Her mind had fumbled through these thoughts for what seemed like hours before she’d finally fallen into an uneasy sleep, only to be haunted by an awful nightmare where she was walking down a long hallway by herself and hands kept shooting out of random places to grab at her and try to drag her away to some unknown torment in the dark.

Understandably, when her alarm had gone off only a handful of hours later at seven, she had not been ready to get out of bed and face the long day she had ahead of her; however, reluctantly, she’d forced herself into clean clothes (never mind that it was only a pair of leggings and an oversized sweatshirt), and dragged herself to class in what she soon found was a rainy, overcast day.

Her VCO class had begun with a quiz – which, although a little convoluted, she felt confident about – but had then delved into a long, in depth conversation about their mid-term paper outlines, what the professor expected of their drafts, and when they should expect to have them ready for a primary review. There had been many questions about formatting and layout, which Bulma found dull and annoying, and by the time they had been able to clarify all doubts and take a look at the progress they had already managed, there wasn’t enough time left in the class to get to the actual classwork. Needless to say, the professor had instead piled it on as additional homework, ensuring Bulma another long evening of reading, notes, and studying 

Her grumpy attitude worsened after that, and continued steadily downhill for the rest of the day as other small, niggling annoyances presented themselves: she traipsed unknowingly through a puddle leaving the engineering building, soaking her sneakers; her favorite table in the library was already occupied when she arrived to work on her VCO assignments; the sandwich she’d wanted from the cafeteria was sold out by the time she finally got a chance to go grab a bite to eat. Needless to say, she was a peevish mess by the time she found herself moodily stomping into classroom 9056A for the class she already hated more than any other: Spanish. Bulma’s baggy sweatshirt was damp and heavy, as the rain had picked up since the morning, and she squelched uncomfortably over to her seat in the back of the classroom. Vegeta was already there, but she ignored the shift his gaze gave towards her as she plopped into her chair and promptly put her head down in her folded arms.

If she hadn’t known better, Bulma would have sworn professor Snyder had the ability to stop time. The minutes ticked by painfully slowly, as the stout woman at the front of the classroom rambled on and on about irregular verbs and then introduced the newest of verb tenses they would be learning about, the simple future tense. Bulma stared towards the front of the room, head held up by her left hand and her eyes unfocused, having decided she wasn’t going to even bother taking notes today. Her thoughts wandered despondently back over to the far corner of her mind, the forbidden area where she’d stashed all the unwanted Yamcha related information she’d recently been mulling over.

She wondered vaguely if she was being immature. More than anything, Bulma was sure she did not want to start dating Yamcha again, and the conversation she’d had with Eighteen the night before had helped validate that decision for her. She also didn’t think that she could be casual friends with him; their relationship had been too intimate, too intense for her to be able to overlook any past interactions and start anew in a different light and with new rules. She imagined both of them quickly overstepping imaginary boundaries, whether intentional or otherwise, and did not want to play that game. What she doubted, though, was if she was being insensitive to him and his feelings. He had seemed genuine in his attempts to be friendly with her – his demeanor at the bar had not given her any reason to think he had an ulterior motive, and his phone call had seemed innocent as well, in retrospect. Friends called friends, right? Especially after seeing each other for the first time in a long time. If Yamcha was serious about wanting to be friends, he really might have just wanted to check in with her.

Bulma chewed on the inside of her lip as guilt creeped into the periphery of her mind. She knew what it was like to be talked down to, to have her words twisted out of context and used against her. Had her stance of fierce self-protection unintentionally caused her to act in a way that would make Yamcha feel that way? She didn’t want that to be the case.

Before she could overthink it anymore, she pulled her phone out and scrolled through her call logs to find the number that had called her the previous night. Her thumbs danced in the air above her phone screen, a tango of uncertainty and doubt, before she typed a short text message.

_Yamcha – wanted to apologize for being short with you last night. Really sorry if I hurt your feelings at all. Not my intention._

She stared down at the words for a tick, momentarily unsure, then pressed “send” before she could chicken out and delete it.  She was going to be the bigger person here, she’d decided. No need to be scared or nervous. Yamcha no longer lauded any kind of leverage over her, and there was no need for her to be anything except courteous and respectful – as long as he was, rather.

“Oi.”

Bulma jumped, her hands flying up to clutch her phone at her chest as she looked wildly to her right. Vegeta was looking at her, the tip of his pen pressed nonchalantly at his temple as he pondered her reaction with a raised eyebrow. Bulma felt herself flush, as though she’d been caught doing something inappropriate. “What?” she asked hastily.

He stared at her for another moment, unblinking. “Are you going to do this?” he finally asked flatly. Her eyes glanced down and settled on his book, which was open to a page of vocabulary exercises he was already three quarters of the way through. Her face crumbled into a scowl, both at his speedy progress through the assignment and at his question.

“What do you care?” she asked scornfully, looking back at him. She had had a very trying 72 hours and was not in the mood for his mocking, passive aggressive accusations. “Since when are you concerned about what I do?”

Vegeta shrugged and made a dismissive noise. “Tch. I’m not. Do whatever you want,” he said, his brow furrowing slightly as he turned back to his book. He wrote silently for a moment before adding, under his breath, “Wouldn’t want to keep you from  _Yamcha_.”

Bulma’s head whipped back around to stare at him, her eyes narrowing. Surely she had misheard that. “Wha – What did you say?” she asked, squinting at him slightly. He didn’t reply, and her phone took the moment of silence between the two of them as an opportunity to buzz loudly from where she’d set it on the table. A small, suggestive smirk inched across Vegeta’s face, but he did not look up from his book as he continued writing. Oh, she had definitely heard right.

Bulma felt a blush sliding furiously up her neck and towards her ears. Did this mean he had indeed heard her conversation last night, or had he just seen the text message over her shoulder before she’d sent it? Either way, the thought of Vegeta knowing even the smallest detail of her ex-boyfriend drama made her feel small and stupid. This would surely be the subject of many jabs thrown her way for weeks to come. In her embarrassment, she turned defensive. “That’s none of your business,” she retorted, hating the childish response as it spilled from her mouth.

Vegeta let out a short bark of derisive laughter. “If it’s such sensitive information, you’d think you wouldn’t make such a spectacle of announcing it to the entire dormitory complex,” he said dryly, still not turning his eyes back up to her.  _Well, that explains how he knows._  Bulma paused, hating the heat she felt building around her cheeks. She was an idiot.

“I – I didn’t know you were there!” she defended meekly. “If I had, I wouldn’t have been so loud. The call caught me off guard is all and I didn’t think to check for privacy first…”

There was another brief moment of silence as Vegeta finished writing something in his book before he finally laid down his pen and pivoted in his chair to focus on her. His dark eyes drew level with her own, and she suddenly felt self-conscious. “I don’t care what you do,” he said flatly, “just don’t tell your dumbass friend Kakarot about it. Your bullshit drama was all he and the bald one would talk about this morning.”

Bulma stared at him, unsure how to respond to that comment, and also a little thrown by his use of Goku’s given name. “Okay, first of all, nobody calls Goku ‘Kakarot’. Literally nobody,” Bulma clarified. The only reason she knew anything about it was because she had helped him fill out university applications when they were still in high school, and he’d been forced to come clean about Goku only being his middle name. “And second, why were you with him this morning?”

“Double practice all this week. There’s a tournament this weekend,” he said gruffly, resting a bulging bicep on the back of his chair. “Both Kakarot and the other fool yapped about your relationship woes all goddamn morning. Do me a favor and keep it to yourself so I don't have to suffer through it as well.”

Bulma ingested this information. She wondered vaguely how Krillin – who else could he be referring to as ‘the bald one’? - knew anything about her running into Yamcha over the weekend, but then reasoned that Goku had probably mentioned it. Also, they might have just been talking about their rocky history in general; there was surely plenty to talk about. Still, the idea that the two numbskulls were airing her dirty laundry out for the entire campus to enjoy irked her. She scowled again.

“I’ll have you know I didn’t tell either of them a damn thing,” she responded hotly, crossing her arms over her chest indignantly. “And they’re not my ‘relationship woes’ – I’m not in a relationship. This is all a rehashing of old news. It’s  _nothing_." 

Vegeta opened his mouth to respond again, an agitated look on his face, when Bulma’s phone again vibrated loudly on the table. He quirked an eyebrow at her instead, glancing at the source of the noise from where it was sitting near her textbook. “You sure about that?" 

“Yes,” she insisted vehemently, and snatched her phone up to see who was so pressed to get in contact with her. She was surprised to find that indeed it was Yamcha. She opened his message hesitantly.

_It’s okay, B. No hurt feelings here. I think I understand what you were trying to say._

Then, further down, a second message:

_It really was nice to see you, though. Hopefully we’ll run into each other again soon._

Bulma stared down at her phone, unsure whether to feel reassured or apprehensive. What the hell was he trying to get at? She couldn’t decide whether he was being sincere or if there was some kind of secret meaning behind his otherwise harmless words. It made her feel uneasy.

She glanced up from the screen to look at Vegeta, who was still staring at her dispassionately. She pursed her lips and turned to stuff her phone to the bottom of her bag. “It’s just my mom,” she lied, straightening in her chair as she turned to face her book. “Don’t worry about whether I have drama or not – I don’t. There’s none. You won’t have to deal with it anymore. Now leave me alone.”

Vegeta scoffed, but turned in his chair as well and said no more on the matter.

If trying to concentrate on her classwork had been initially trying, now it was impossible. Bulma gazed cluelessly down at her textbook, not interested in trying to understand how to begin the exercises, and instead wishing wholeheartedly that the earth would swallow her up and spit her out somewhere far, far away. She realized suddenly that every time she had an encounter of any kind with Vegeta, she consistently walked away from it feeling intensely stupid somehow. He very obviously had a gift for turning even the most mundane or innocent of conversations into a taunting, condescending affair; the discussion they had just had, for example, would have been no big deal had she had it with anyone else. Instead, now, she was left feeling embarrassed and could not begin to figure out why.

Against her better judgement, Bulma turned to look at her grumpy neighbor, who had taken to doodling apathetically in the margins of his notebook. As she had noted a million times before, he really was quite attractive. He had an angular face with high cheek bones and a sharp jawline. His dark, unruly hair reminded her vaguely of a paintbrush, but yet still looked nice on him – it stuck up in all the right places, making her wonder if it was naturally so wild or if he spent ages in the mirror trying to make the hairstyle look effortless. His shoulders were broad and strong, his arms well shaped and muscular, and the well-defined chest and abdomen she knew were hidden under his sweater tapered into a slim midriff. She allowed her mind to wonder momentarily to what else he was hiding under that waistline, before yanking the reigns on that line of thinking.

She brought her gaze back up to his face, and unabashedly asked the first thing that came to mind. “Vegeta,” she said, thinking back to her reverie the other night at the bar. He turned his head to look at her, indifferent arrogance plain on his face. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

His reaction was immediate, and surprising. If anything, Bulma had imagined he would blow her off, scoff at her, roll his eyes and tell her to shut up; instead, his eyes widened – in horror? Surprise? Embarrassment? She couldn’t tell – and his cheeks flushed a fair shade of pink. Indignant, he harrumphed at her. “Tch. What would I do that for?” he scowled, defensive. “I have enough shit to worry about. No need for a damn woman and all her issues, too.”

Bulma watched him, and couldn’t help but leer a little bit. She sensed she’d found a topic where she had the upper hand, and wasn’t about to let it get shushed away that quickly. “Oh, come on. I know you must get a lot of offers,” she insisted, scooting her chair closer to him and smiling sweetly. This was true; there had been a handful of times that Bulma had seen Vegeta around campus other than in her dorm building and in their joint class, and each and every time he had been accompanied by a different girl. Granted, he had not looked exactly thrilled by the company – twice he’d appeared to be ignoring the other person, and once he had been actively trying to escape, several strides ahead of the girl as she’d continued yammering after him, oblivious – but, still, the fact remained that women were interested in him. “Are you telling me you don’t take any of them up on it?” 

Vegeta snapped his head away from her back towards his book. Despite the poorly concealed attempt to hide his face, Bulma noticed his ears growing red. She grinned gleefully at his discomfort. “Why would I tell you if I did?” he asked her roughly, closing his Spanish textbook.

“Why so secretive?” she teased, leaning towards him. “No need to be so nervous. It’s not like I’d tell anybody. I mean, unless - ” she cut herself off, and lowered her voice to a dramatic stage whisper. “Vegeta, are you  _a virgin_?”

He turned to look at her incredulously. “No!” he hissed, scandalized by the suggestion. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Vegeta, really, no judgement – there is absolutely no reason to be embarrassed, if you are, although I know everyone decides when they’re ready differently and in their own time - ”

“ _Woman, no_!” he seethed at her, his face red. “I’m  _not_. I’m just – I’ve got particular tastes and will settle for nothing less than what I want. I refuse to compromise on the traits I look for in a partner – there’s no point in conceding on something subpar. It would be a waste of time.”

“Hmm,” Bulma mused, studying the aggravated expression on his face as he looked at her, obviously affronted by this line of questioning. When he phrased it that way, she could agree that it made sense. Of course, having standards that were too high would also condemn him to a life of solitude – but that was not her decision to make. “Okay, fair enough,” she conceded cheerily.

He rolled his eyes, his cheeks still rosy, and grabbed the small pile of items he had with him - his textbook, his notebook, his pen, and an umbrella he had tucked under his chair – before standing. Bulma looked up at him, surprised. There were still a good thirty minutes left in their class. “Hey, don’t let me scare you away,” she said as he pushed his chair into the table.

Vegeta scoffed at her. “As if. I’ve got double practice today, remember?” he said scathingly, and turned to leave without another word. Bulma watched as his broad shoulders disappeared through the doorway, and was surprised to realize she felt a little disappointed. She’d been enjoying picking on him. Now all she was left with was her stupid simple future exercises.

She turned back to her book and contemplated the questions for a moment before groaning and letting her head fall forward to smack against the page. She briefly considered heading over to the martial arts arena after class ended to watch the team practice, but then cringed inwardly, realizing that would come off as vaguely desperate. No, what she really needed was her warm bed and a few hours’ sleep; however, even as she accepted this, her mind thumbed lightly at the memory of Vegeta’s intensely blushing cheeks.

*****

Two weeks later, Bulma was wishing she had paid more attention in her Spanish class and spent less time provoking Vegeta. Having already completed the mid-term requirements she’d been given in her other classes – an assortment of presentations, research papers, and prototypes - she was officially out of procrastinating excuses and had no other choice but to sit down and start studying for her Spanish exam. The issue was that it was already nearing five o’clock on Wednesday, which meant the exam was the following afternoon, and she had yet to start going over the material.

She sighed loudly, intentionally dramatic, from her place at the desk in her bedroom, letting her head roll backwards so she could cover her face with her hands. “Eighteeeeeen,” she whined childishly, separating her fingers so she could look through them at the ceiling. “Eighteen, come help me study Spanish vocabulary, please!”

Bulma heard her friend laugh. “Why do you need help?” she called from the neighboring bedroom, her voice muffled by the walls separating them. “I’m busy! Just make some flashcards. Entry level language courses are a piece of cake!”

Bulma grumbled, annoyed at this response. “I have flashcards, I just need someone to help me go over them!” she complained, letting her hands fall from her face to her sides. “Eighteen, please! It’s the only class I’m not ready for!”

There was a brief silence followed by the sound of footsteps as Eighteen made her way down the hallway to Bulma’s room. She stopped in the doorway and, sensing her presence, Bulma turned to look at her miserably from her place at the desk. “I’m going to fail,” she moaned morosely, her brow knit together in worry. “I’m going to fail the exam, and then fail the class, and then I won’t be able to graduate because I won’t have the stupid mandatory language credit! And then – oh God, then I’ll have to move back in with my parents!”

Eighteen’s lips parted into a smile, putting her straight teeth on rare display. “Bulma, stop,” she chided, unable to stop an escaping laugh. She walked over to her and picked up the stack of index cards on Bulma’s desk, each of which she’d painstakingly labelled with a Spanish word and the English equivalent on the other side. “You’re too brilliant for that to happen, and you know it. An introductory Spanish class is not going to stop you.”

“Eighteen, I’m not kidding. I haven’t looked at a goddamn thing for this exam,” she stressed, leaning forward to hold her head up with her hand, her elbow against the desk. She stared at her friend, forehead wrinkled with anxiety. “I mean, I have a list of topics the professor gave out, but I haven’t looked at any of this stupid vocabulary, and only loosely understand the grammar -”

“Well, normally I would help you, but I have an exam of my own to study for, which actually starts in - ” Eighteen paused to look down at the silver watch she was wearing, “ - an hour and a half, so as I’m sure you understand, my priorities are a bit skewed. And don’t you dare look at me like that, you know I would absolutely help any other day!" 

“Well that doesn’t help me now!” Bulma said with anguish, snatching the flashcards back from her and tossing them roughly onto the desk. “I need you for these kinds of things, Eighteen! Who else am I going to ask?”

“Not Goku – I doubt he’d be much help,” she relented, tucking a piece of blonde hair behind her ear. “And not Krillin either, he’s swamped with his own stuff. Isn’t there anyone in your class that you can study with? A lot of my classes have group chats, and it makes for easy study group plans.”

“No, I don’t talk to anybody in that class. Well, I mean…” Bulma hesitated, wondering if she wanted to voice what she was thinking aloud. She imagined herself going downstairs to knock on the door across the courtyard, asking for Vegeta, hoping he was both there and willing to help her. Although recently Vegeta had been less caustic towards her – probably for fear that she’d say something embarrassing to discomfort him – he was still not exactly a close friend, and she felt awkward about the idea of dropping in on him unexpectedly. She crinkled her nose at the idea, and thought better of it. “No, no, there’s nobody.”

“Well, guess you’re on your own then, champ!” Eighteen walked past her, patting her confidently on the shoulder. “Don’t be worried, Bulma, you’ll do great. I have faith in you.”

Bulma sighed again, resigning herself to a solo study session, and picked up the flashcards she had tossed onto the desk. She looked at them for a moment before pulling her computer towards her as well. Maybe she could get some listening practice in while she was at it.

Despite her trepidation, though, studying for the exam did not go as badly as she had anticipated. She found a plethora of extra exercises online to practice the grammar concepts, as well as a number of different juvenile games to help her remember the vocabulary; indeed, by the time she allowed herself to go to bed several hours later, she was feeling tentatively confident about her prospects at getting a decent grade.

Less than twenty-four hours later, Bulma was turning in her exam and walking out of the Spanish classroom, feeling considerably lighter than she had for the past several days. This marked the end of her mid-terms season, which also meant she was entitled to a long weekend; she had already presented the project for the class she normally had on Fridays, and thus wouldn’t need to go tomorrow. She stretched her hands above her head in jubilation as she walked into the hallway, unabashedly celebrating the end of what had been her most dreaded exam; better still was that she didn’t think she had done too badly. She had recognized all the concepts mentioned in the questions, and although she had gotten tripped up on at least two problems she felt confident enough in the others that she thought herself due a passing grade. She didn’t even mind that she’d been one of the last people to finish. Vegeta, of course, had walked in, taken the test, and walked back out all within fifteen minutes, but Bulma had used over an hour to ensure she hadn’t made any careless mistakes before deciding it wasn’t going to get any better than what it already was.

She exhaled in relief as she walked out the double doors at the end of the long hallway into the fall afternoon. It was decidedly autumn by now, as the leaves had begun to turn a myriad of warm colors and the breeze that ruffled her short hair was several degrees cooler than it had been mere weeks earlier, causing her to pull her jean jacket closer around her as she trekked back to her dorm. Other students were strewn around the sprawling university grounds in degrees of different pre or post exam situations: some were still very obviously in the midst of testing, with their textbooks open at picnic tables to cram for upcoming deadlines, but there were several groups sitting on the grass or walking together in packs, laughing and chatting amiably, that seemed to be enjoying the same after-exam relief that Bulma suddenly found herself in.

“Bulma!”

Bulma turned, hearing her name, and found Eighteen walking towards her, dragging Krillin behind her by the hand. She smiled and paused to wait for them to catch up. “Hey! How’d your exam go?”

“Oh, fine. Important thing is I’m done now,” Eighteen dismissed, pulling up even with her and continued the journey across the lawn towards their building. “Don’t ask Krillin, though – he did pretty poorly on his morning presentation, and still has another tomorrow.”

“Oh. Sorry, Krillin,” Bulma said sympathetically, look at a glum, silent Krillin from his place next to Eighteen.

“I studied really hard, too,” he complained, scratching behind his ear as though confused. “Coach has just been really intense with all the training sessions lately and I didn’t have as much time as I wanted to get ready…”

“You’ll do better tomorrow,” Eighteen consoled shortly, and then abruptly looked at Bulma. “Bulma, what I wanted to say was I just found out there’s a party tonight at the Kappa Lambda Chi house off campus to celebrate the end of exams. We should go!”

Kappa Lambda Chi, Bulma knew, was one of the smaller fraternities on campus, but also the most well-known for its celebrations. Unlike many of the other frats and sororities around campus which were all academic in theme somehow – medicine, law, engineering, et cetera - Kappa Lambda Chi was a military frat, and only allowed members who were either current or former armed forces members. Bulma had only ever been to a ΚΛΧ party once, and it had been ages ago, during her freshman year, not long after she had broken up with Yamcha. She had gone with the tawdry intent to maybe find a new guy to take her mind off her miseries, even if just for the evening, but had realized upon arrival that, given her fragile emotional state, it was probably in her best interest to hold off on new physical relationships just yet. Instead, she’d spent the night with Eighteen playing beer pong against a pair of overly drunk newbie recruits, and she held the recollection fondly amidst a period of time which usually bore a negative connotation in her memory.

Eighteen was watching her suspiciously, obviously taking her silence as a sign of an impending rejection. “Bulma, come on! You’ve had a crazy schedule recently, and really need to live a little - ”

“No, yeah,” Bulma cut her off, nodding suddenly. Eighteen stopped talking, looking surprised. “Yeah, I agree. That sounds fun. I’ll go with you!”

And so, hours later, the two girls found themselves walking out of the large, wrought iron gate at the far end of campus that would release them into the neighboring community where the ΚΛΧ house was nestled among a number of other South City University group houses. Bulma shivered as they crossed the street and made their way down a sidewalk. Remembering the plain outfit she’d been stuck wearing a few weeks previously when she’d gone out with Chi Chi and Goku, she had taken more care to choose something more appealing tonight, though it did not provide much protection against the cool autumn evening: a black, high waisted mid-thigh length skirt and a long sleeved gold shirt that was flecked with glitter to give it a bright, shimmering effect. The shirt was cropped to expose a slim portion of her pale midriff, though the skirt was high enough that she didn’t feel self-conscious about the minimal amount of bare skin. She’d paired the outfit, against her better judgement, with a pair of black pumps. They were the only heels she owned, and had only brought them with her to school in the case of needing formalwear for an important presentation. While she hadn’t intended on wearing them, there had been no way to convince Eighteen of this after she’d seen them in her closet, and so Bulma had relented, sensing she would regret the decision later.

As they approached the block that held the house, Bulma began to hear the deep thumping of an over utilized subwoofer, and then the shouts of laughter and conversation indicative of a large group of people. Sure enough, as they rounded the corner, the large blue house came into view, overrun with students. The small, fenced in front lawn had been converted into something of an admission space; there was a group of three or four guys at the front door, with a small line of people that trailed down the concrete walk, waiting to be let into the house. There were a few other bystanders nearby, sitting in mismatched lawn chairs in the small patch of brown grass that constituted the front yard.

Bulma and Eighteen joined the line and, after a few moments of waiting, were allowed entry into the packed house. The entry fee being charged by the group of boys at the door – and the cause for the line – had been a winning game of rock, paper, scissors. Bulma won on her first try, and although Eighteen lost, the dangerous look on her face had convinced them to let her in, anyway.

The house was identical to others Bulma had been in for other fraternity get-togethers: there was a long, narrow stairway that led upstairs as soon as they walked in the front door, as well as a hallway straight ahead that lead to the kitchen. There was a big room on the right that was supposed to be an office, but that had been instead converted into what appeared to be a game room. The living room was on the left, and the adjoining dining room as well. Two large speakers had been piled into the far corner of the dining room, which seemed to serve the purpose of a dance area.

Eighteen looked around, trying to decide where to go, before she pointed towards the kitchen. “Drinks!” she hollered at Bulma over the loud music. Bulma nodded and followed her down the hall. The kitchen was only slightly less crowded, but showed them a back door that was thrown open to expose the backyard. There was a small group of people huddled around a table in the corner of the kitchen, playing a card game and laughing rowdily. Bulma grabbed a plastic cup from the unused pile on the counter, indiscriminately picked a bottle of alcohol to serve herself, and topped off the rest of her cup with soda. She wasn’t much of a drinker; none of it tasted great to her, so it mattered little which kind she ended up with.

She turned to looked for Eighteen just in time to see her walking out the back door to the yard, chatting amiably with another girl. Bulma sipped her drink for a moment before relenting and going outside after her. Even if she didn’t end up spending the evening with Eighteen, the prospect of the cool air suddenly seemed pleasant after being introduced to the stuffy house.

There was a small deck connected to the house, which then had stairs that lead to another small yard. People were gathered in small groups, chatting and laughing, and although the music was still audible, it wasn’t nearly as loud as inside. She walked over to the rail of the deck and leaned against it, sipping her drink again, and looking around the yard. She didn’t immediately recognize anyone; sure, there was Eighteen, who was now standing in a small group of women nearby, laughing uproariously at something, but nobody else jumped out as being instantly familiar. There was another smaller group of quieter girls seated nearby in a circle, hurriedly whispering something; a group of guffawing guys were down on the grass near the chain link fence that housed the yard, all of them wearing what looked like varsity jackets; a mixed group of people stood closest to her, listening to a story someone within the group was telling; and, walking out the back door onto the deck, there was –

“Vegeta?” Bulma’s eyebrows shot up as he appeared through the doorway. He was dressed simply, in a pair of dark blue jeans and a long sleeved white shirt, as well as a pair of flat soled sneakers. He had a bottle in his hand, and although Bulma couldn’t see the label in the dim light, she thought it was probably beer. “Vegeta! What are you doing here?”

Vegeta looked just as stunned to see her. His surprise, though, quickly melted into his trademark glower. He took a swig from his bottle as he walked towards her. “Why wouldn’t I be here?” he growled at her, pausing next to where she stood at the top of the stairs. She looked at him, puzzled, eliciting an eye roll. “This is my frat. I belong to Kappa Lambda Chi.”

Bulma couldn’t hide her grin. “You? You’re in a  _frat_ , of all things?” she teased, enjoying the annoyed look he gave her. “But Vegeta, you have to like other people to be a frat brother! Especially one like Kappa…like Kappa Lambda… Wait – does that mean you’re  _military_?” The realization hit her slowly, and flabbergasted her far more than the idea of him simply being in a fraternity.

He shot her with another patronizing look that would have normally embarrassed her. “Not that it’s any of your business, but yeah, I am,” he said, resting his elbow against the rail next to her. She thought she noted pride in his tone. “My father is as well. All the men in my family are or have been military in some capacity. Now, what the fuck’s that look for?”

Bulma realized suddenly that her face had contorted into a grimace without her meaning it to. She raised her cup to take a drink, eager to mask her reaction. “I just… I dunno. I can’t really picture you as a military guy,” she said honestly, raising one of her shoulders in a shrug. “You don’t seem like the type who would willingly devote his life to taking orders.”

Vegeta scoffed at this, again rolling his eyes, but Bulma noticed a faint sneer on his lips. “Tch. I don’t plan on taking orders,” he said in a tone that brokered no argument as he took another swig of his drink. “I’ll be giving them.”

She couldn’t help but laugh at that. It seemed to her a very Vegeta-esque comment. He looked at her, an amused look on his face. “What are you doing here, then? At school, I mean, if you’re just going to join the military,” she clarified, watching his face. She realized suddenly that this was possibly the longest non-argumentative conversation she had ever had with Vegeta, as well as the most she had ever learned about him. Oddly, she didn’t want it to end. “What’s your major?”

He eyed her for a moment, as though pondering whether to deign her with answers to her questions. “International relations, with a national security focus,” he finally relented. “I went to a military academy for high school, and joined the military right after that for basic training. I’d planned on just staying in, but my father wanted me to get a degree. Did a few semesters at my local school, but then they offered me a martial arts scholarship here, so I transferred. I graduate in the spring.”

“Hmm,” Bulma mused, absently swirling the contents of her cup in circles. “So, you’re not originally from South City, then?”

“No,” he answered gruffly, and then paused for a beat before continuing, “I don’t really have a hometown. Travelled abroad a lot as a kid. High school was a boarding school, in Central City, so I just stayed there after I finished.”

“Oh. Y’know, I’m not from South City, either,” Bulma said, and smiled. “I grew up in West City, and my parents and my sister are still there. They, uh – they own a company there.” Past experiences had taught her not to overtly mention the name of her father’s company unless among friends or people who already knew her family was one of the richest in the country. She knew how that changed the perceptions people had of her, and didn’t want it to cloud Vegeta’s ideas of the kind of person she was. “I try not to go back, though.”

They chatted for the better part of the next half hour, Bulma driving the conversation with tentative questions in the hopes that Vegeta would divulge more information about his little known private life, and surprisingly, he conceded on several accounts. She managed to discern that he had a younger brother who went to school in a different city, and that his father was currently posted abroad, among a few other minor details, and she was sure to throw in a few things about herself as well so he didn’t feel bombarded. She was astounded that he was willing to even be within arm’s reach of her outside of class, much less voluntarily speak to her; more shocking still was that he wasn’t  _awful_. Despite his gruff tone and often short answers, he wasn’t overly critical or nearly as harsh as she was used to. It almost made her suspicious.

They naturally lapsed into a comfortable silence after a while, and Bulma took the opportunity to think of a new line of inquiry. Despite her usual comfort and ease in social situations – she prided herself on being easy to get along with, a natural extrovert – she was finding it difficult to think of things to talk about with him that she didn’t think would make him uncomfortable. The last thing she wanted was for him to get annoyed with her and walk away. As she was about to ask another question, this time about the martial arts team, a large hand suddenly enclosed Vegeta’s shoulder from behind. “VEGETA!”

She looked up at the intruder, the question she had prepared dying on her lips. She recognized the long haired man from the handful of times she had seen him around their dorm building, though his habitually wild locks were currently pulled into a messy ponytail that trailed down his back. He was dressed inappropriately for the cool weather, in cut off jean shorts and a tank top, though he seemed unaware of the chill. His raucous behavior soon explained why. “Man, we’ve been looking for you all over!” he said, his voice many decibels higher than was necessary, given their proximity. “I told Nappa! Knew you’d be with a chick – Nappa! NAPPA! I found ‘im!”

“Shut  _up_ , Raditz,” Vegeta snarled at him, wrenching his shoulder from the bigger man’s grasp. Bulma blinked at the two of them, quietly nursing her drink. She acknowledged vaguely that Nappa must be the brawny bald one that was usually the third addition to their little group.

If at all perceiving Vegeta’s hostility through his obviously drunken fog, Raditz didn’t let it show. He let Vegeta pull free from his grasp before swinging his arm around his shoulders instead, a plastic cup full of some sort of alcohol swaying dangerously in hand. “C’mon, buddy! Nappa and I were just about to start playing the field – though, looks like you’re ahead of us,” he snickered loudly, throwing a look at Bulma as he steered Vegeta away. “Wondered where you’d got to, guess that explains – Oh, OH look, there’s Nappa!”

Bulma watched as the two left the deck and meandered down to the yard where Nappa was waving at them from the large group of guys in the far corner. Vegeta looked over his shoulder at her as they left, but eventually turned to face his friends. She sighed slowly, turning away from the patio to go back inside, pointedly shoving the growing sense of disappointment she felt in her stomach back down into the oblivion from whence it came. She needed to refill her drink anyway, and it was time she found a bathroom.

Despite not knowing many other people at the party – she did recognize two girls from her VCO class, as well as a guy in her mechatronics group – Bulma soon found herself laughing with several other people in what had at one point been the office space, and spent a good portion of the evening playing flip cup in teams, and then quarters, which she was particularly good at. She found herself refilling her own drink on several occasions, and by the time she wandered out of the side room and thought to look for Eighteen, she found her balance slightly skewed and her vision blurred.

Eighteen was sitting on a couch in the living room, intently watching someone trying to do a magic trick. She saw Bulma from the hallway and waved her in, patting the vacant spot next to her on the sofa.

“Now, watch the card,” the boy sitting on the coffee table in front of her was instructing loudly over the thumping music, as Bulma plopped down next to her friend. Eighteen stared fixedly as he shuffled the deck of cards in his hand, and made a show of tapping it twice with his index finger on either side before pulling off the top card and showing it to her. “Now, is that your card?”

Eighteen stared for a moment before wrinkling her nose. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s not.”

His face crumpled in confusion, and he paused for a second before his features lit up again. “Oh, I know! That’s because it’s here,” he said, and reached behind Eighteen to pull another card from behind her shoulder which he then flashed at her. She laughed and clapped, nodding.

“Hey, that’s pretty good,” she said, smiling and looking at Bulma. “Did you see that?”

“Not really,” Bulma admitted, noting how very pleased the guy looked to be on the receiving end of Eighteen’s praise. She leaned her head against Eighteen’s shoulder. “Having fun, though?”

“Yeah, guess so. Just hanging around. What’ve you been up to? Feel like I lost you as soon as we got here,” she replied, letting her head rest against Bulma’s.

“Been playing games in the other room. Saw Vegeta right after we got here, though, and talked to him for a bit,” she said, stifling a yawn. She thought for a moment, wondering if her friend would remember who that was, before adding, “You know. The grumpy one, from my Spanish class.”

“Oh! Oh, right. I thought you hated him, though?” Eighteen asked, turning to look at her. The magician had grown quiet during their conversation, and after a moment stood to leave, having given up hope on keeping Eighteen’s attention for any longer. She ignored his departure. “Why would you talk to him if he’s such a jerk?”

Bulma half shrugged, sitting up straight to stretch an arm above her head. It had grown late, and she was getting tired in her half drunken stupor. Despite the hour, there were still several dozen people packed into the surrounding spaces, especially the dining room/dance area. “I dunno, I kind of enjoy his company. He’s fun to pick on, and he’s really not so bad when he’s not being a grump,” she said, thinking it through as she said it. She studied Eighteen’s familiar features for a moment, before saying, “I think… I think I have a crush on him, really.”

Eighteen raised an eyebrow at her, a knowing grin growing on her lips. “You have a  _crush_  on him? What are we, ten?” she teased, laughing. Bulma laughed, too, her usual embarrassment washed away with the various rum and cokes she’d downed over the course of the evening.

“I don’t know how else to say it! He’s kind of nice when he wants to be, and he makes me feel… I dunno, excited? Nervous? And  _god_ , he’s gorgeous – have you  _seen_  ‘im?” Bulma prattled, falling back against the couch cushions. “Not much of a chance there for me, though, I don’t think. I’ll have to admire him from far away.”

“And why not?” Eighteen asked haughtily, looking at her critically. “Bulma, you’re gorgeous yourself!  _And_  you’re brilliant! You have lots to offer a guy. Stop letting your past experiences ruin any chance of something new. Take some chances, have some fun.”

“Eh, you don’t know this guy. He’s the goddamn king of hard-to-get,” she said, making a face at Eighteen’s declaration of solidarity. “Surprised he’d talk to me at all, really. S’okay, though. I don’t – I don’t…”

She trailed off as someone in the adjoining room caught her eye. She could’ve sworn she’d seen a very familiar blonde dancing in the crowd of people, but it was entirely possible she’d imagined it. After all, it was late, and she’d been drinking, and blondes were pretty common in any case – but, then again…

“Ugh, Eighteen, we have to go,” Bulma said suddenly, as her eyes caught the same blonde twirl in a circle across the room, showing her face for Bulma to verify it was exactly who she’d thought it was. What Launch was doing at a frat party in South City, Bulma didn’t know, but she was quite keen on not being seen by her. “Please, let’s get out of here. I’m tired anyway.”

“What? Why?” Eighteen asked, bewildered, as she turned her head to try to follow Bulma’s line of sight, wanting to know what had caused the sudden urgency. “What did you see? What’s going on?”

“You never met her, but do you remember me telling you about Yamcha’s best friend’s crazy girlfriend, Launch?” Bulma asked, standing clumsily and offering Eighteen a hand to help her stand from the couch. “She’s over there dancing right now, and I really don’t want to deal with some weird, awkward reunion. Please, let’s go.”

“What the hell is she doing here?” Eighteen asked, bewildered as she accepted Bulma’s hand and stood. Bulma shrugged, turning to leave the living room and head into the hall to escape.

“I don’t know, but please let’s not… Oh, God - ” she cut herself off, choking on her words as another familiar figure came into view from over Eighteen’s shoulder down the hall, in the kitchen. Even with his haircut, the shaggy hair gave him away, and Bulma didn’t need him to turn around to know he had a jarring scar across his left cheek. She darted to the staircase, tugging Eighteen with her, desperate to get out of his line of sight should he turn around.

“Bulma, what the fuck - ”

“Eighteen,  _Yamcha’s_  here,” she said, crouching down on the steps and flattening herself against the wall. “We can’t go out the back – please, let’s just slip out the front, here - ”

“What are you even talking about? Bulma, there is no way that he’s here - ”

“Yes, he is! I just saw him back in the kitchen! I don’t know why he’s here, but – oh,  _fuck_  - ”

It was too late to escape unnoticed. Yamcha came sauntering down the hallway towards the living room, saw the two of them huddled together on the stairs, and stopped dead in his tracks. “B?” he said, looking confused for a moment before smiling widely. “Hey! You been here all night? Where’ve you been hiding?”

Bulma recognized the familiar slur of his words that indicated he’d had one too many, even through her own boozy haze; it had been a familiar quality of the many phone calls he’d peppered her with following their separation. She pleadingly looked at Eighteen, who gave her a sympathetic look, before realizing there was no escaping this awkward conversation. Grimacing, she looked at Yamcha. “Uh, yeah – hi. I was – I was in the game room…”

He walked over to the stairs, leaning up against the railing. “Hoped I might run into you on campus. Tien had a tournament in town this weekend. Launch and I came with him, and Goku invited us to visit. He’s around here somewhere, too.”

Bulma vividly imagined what it would feel like to wrap her hands around Goku’s throat and strangle him to death, and was given a fleeting sense of satisfaction. “Oh. Yeah, I wondered…” she trailed off, not keen on stoking the flame of this conversation any more than was absolutely necessary. Yamcha had never been good at catching onto social cues, though, and rambled right on.

“So, hey, you wanna come over and sit out back with us? I was just coming in to look for Launch, but Tien’s at a table back in the kitchen – wanna join us?”

Bulma made a pained expression and glanced at Eighteen, who was sitting on the stair next to her, watching the exchange quietly. Although she’d decided she wouldn’t be mean to Yamcha, she also had not changed her mind about not being friends. “Uh, no actually – we were just about to head out. Feeling a little sick, really.

“Oh. That sucks,” Yamcha said, looking disappointed. “Well, can I walk you home, maybe? I mean, it’s pretty late – "

“Nope, no, that’s – nah, it’s fine,” she said hurriedly, shaking her head and pulling on Eighteen’s sleeve to get her to stand again. She began inching down the stairs, towards the front door. “We don’t live far, so we’ll be fine…”

“Well, could we at least talk for a minute before you go?” Yamcha asked, and Bulma’s stomach became a lead weight of dread. She had been hopeful that with Eighteen present, he wouldn’t delve into a ‘we need to talk’ conversation, but apparently that had been wishful thinking. “We could just step outside if you wanted - ”

“Yamcha, I don’t really see what the point is,” Bulma said, feeling uncomfortable. Eighteen stood and, taking her hand, began walking towards the door. Bulma began edging after her, letting herself be guided towards the exit. “There’s really nothing to talk about.”

His eyebrows kneaded together, wrinkling his forehead. “I don’t think so. I – I still have a lot I never got to say,” he insisted, and to her dismay began following them towards the door. “That text you sent me really got me thinking – “

“No – no, Yamcha, really, let it go. Stay here, have fun. I’m going to go home,” Bulma said flatly, and turned to push Eighteen the last few steps to the exit, and out the door. They made it halfway down the front walk towards the sidewalk before she felt a firm hand around her upper arm. 

“B, wait – please, just for a minute,” Yamcha implored, looking forlorn. 

She shook her head, tugging her arm to try to break free from his grasp. “No! Yamcha, please stop – you’re making a scene - ” Despite the small yard, there were still a decent number of people crowded around them, almost all of whom had stopped their conversations to stare at the scene unfolding before them. Bulma felt herself redden, embarrassed by the public display, and suddenly felt anger bubble in her stomach. “I mean it, Yamcha. I said no!”

“Look, asshole, let her go!” Eighteen shouted from in front of her, her arm hooked protectively in the arm not being held captive by Yamcha.

He ignored the onlookers, instead letting his voice take on a pleading quality. “Bulma, I can’t stop thinking about you. I mean it. This whole time we’ve been apart – I’ve never gotten over you, really - ”

“Well, I have!” Bulma snapped, wrenching herself free with a forceful tug. She stumbled, unbalanced on her heels, and looked at him furiously. “Yamcha, stop! You’re drunk, and making stupid decisions - I’m sorry you’re sad, I really am, but I can’t live my life avoiding you forever! Please, leave me alone!

She turned to leave again, her heart rabbiting in her rib cage as she followed Eighteen hastily down the walk to the front gate, but didn’t quite make it to the sidewalk before she felt someone tug on her wrist again. She reeled around, ready to start yelling, but came up short upon seeing it wasn’t Yamcha who was holding her back this time.

“Hey,” Vegeta said, his voice gravelly as his eyes washed over her features inquiringly.  He had rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, exposing his taut forearms. “Everything… okay?”

Bulma opened her mouth to respond, but found no words, and instead gaped at him stupidly. She could see Yamcha from over his shoulder, staring at them, a crestfallen look on his face. She felt oddly guilty, and hated herself for it. She had thought she’d been free of Yamcha’s dogged harassment, and even now, years after breaking up, she was finding it was still a persistent feature in her life; why the hell should she feel guilty for putting him in his place? It made her angry to think she had to watch her back, even here at school, which had always been her save space. She looked back at Vegeta. “No, it’s not,” she said firmly. “Would you walk me home?”

Given that they were only recently moving past outright hostility into a more agreeable relationship, she had half expected him to laugh and decline; however, he glanced back at Yamcha briefly before looking back at her and nodding, releasing her wrist.

They exited the small enclosure and walked out onto the sidewalk. Eighteen was already waiting there, and turned to begin walking ahead of them before they could catch up. They walked in silence for a few minutes, moving ever farther away from the thumping party music, before Bulma stopped to take off her heels, instead opting to carry them and continue the trip barefoot. “Stupid heels,” she mumbled.

Vegeta snorted, glancing over at her. “What the fuck did you wear them for then?”

“Really, I don’t fucking know,” she grumbled, crossing an arm around the exposed bit of her midsection as the cool breeze picked up. “To be taller? Hmph.”

“Nothing wrong with being short,” he said brusquely, half shrugging. She gave him a small smile, knowing it was something he himself had probably struggled with, but said nothing. They walked in silence for another several minutes before she said, “Thank you for coming with me. I know you’ll have to just turn around and go back, so I appreciate it.”

“I won’t have to go back,” he said flatly. She looked at him, not understanding. “I don’t live in the frat house. I have a dorm across campus."

“Oh. I thought all the frat guys lived in the houses?” she said. He shook his head.

“It’s an option, not an obligation. I like privacy.”

She couldn’t fault him that. The idea of living in a relatively small house, crammed with a few dozen guys did not seem appealing to her either.

The rest of the walk was quiet; although Bulma wanted to continue asking him the questions she hadn’t gotten time for earlier, she didn’t want to overwhelm him, and thus allowed the comfortable silence to continue until they reached her dorm building. Eighteen, who was several dozen feet ahead of them, had already let herself upstairs by the time they reached the elevators.

“Well, thank you, again,” Bulma said, turning to face Vegeta. He didn’t respond, but instead grunted and gave her a nod before turning to go.

“See you around,” he said, and walked away without offering anything else. She watched his back retreat around the corner of the building before turning to head upstairs herself.  

As she lay in bed a few moments later, Bulma pondered tiredly what she would have to do to get Yamcha to understand that she wasn’t interested in his friendship or advances. What should have been a fun night had turned into a humiliating public display, and she wasn’t entirely convinced it was because he’d been drinking. Yet, despite her mortification at being the center of such a debacle, she somehow also felt a little flattered that Vegeta had agreed to walk her home. Had he been watching the scene play out, and stepped in to help? At any rate, it was nice that he seemingly cared enough to check to see if she was alright, even though he often acted like she was naught more than a nuisance.

She sighed, pulling her pillow over her head and rolling onto her stomach. She didn’t know what Yamcha wanted from her, or what Vegeta was thinking; what she did know, though, was that she was going to have a very serious talk with Goku about warning her whenever he’d invited Yamcha to visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would've had this up earlier, but life happened. Hope it was worth the wait!
> 
> "And everything I know tells me that I should walk away  
> But I just want to stay  
> And my friend said  
> 'I know you love her, but it's over, mate  
> It doesn't matter, put the phone away  
> It's never easy to walk away, let her go  
> It'll be okay  
> It's gonna hurt for a bit of time  
> So bottoms up, let's forget tonight  
> You'll find another and you'll be just fine  
> Let her go' "


	5. A Fight and a Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been drafted for quite some time, but life happened, and it's been hard to find time to sit down and edit it properly. I rewrote several large chunks and that zapped a lot of time, too.  
> It's rather long, and I considered dividing it into two chapters, but meh. I, personally, am a big fan of long chapters, so hopefully you are, too.  
> Also, many thanks for all the encouraging feedback after the last chapter! I sincerely appreciate all your kudos and comments. It gives me the drive to come back and write even on days when I just want to veg out on the couch.  
> Hope you enjoy this chapter!

Bulma stared down at her cell phone as it vibrated loudly next to her notebook. The number displayed on the screen wasn’t a registered contact, but all the same she knew who it was. Truly, she was surprised she hadn’t gotten a phone call before now; days had gone by since the party on Thursday night, and given the way it had ended, she had imagined Yamcha would have called and texted dozens of times before she had even managed to get out of bed on Friday. Instead, it had been a suspiciously low key couple of days, so if anything, she should have been thankful she’d made it to Sunday evening before he tried to contact her.

The issue was that she still hadn’t decided how she wanted to approach this conversation. She had talked it over with Eighteen, who had been all for telling him to fuck off and just calling the police, and had also called Chi Chi, who was angrier at Goku for not giving Bulma a warning that Yamcha would be in town, than at Yamcha himself for being a creep; however, neither conversation had been very helpful insofar as developing a strategy to make Yamcha understand she had moved on. Despite his rash decisions and pushy behavior, Bulma didn’t want to be unnecessarily cruel to Yamcha – she knew him well enough to understand that, even though he hadn’t been a good boyfriend, he wasn’t a bad person, just an immature one incapable of making emotionally responsible choices.

She sighed for a moment before picking up the phone and answering the call. If she ignored the situation for too long, it would eventually snowball into something worse, and even if she didn’t have all the answers, she preferred tackling it head on and just getting it over with. “Hello?”

There was a loud sigh of relief on the other end. “Bulma – B, hi. I’m so happy you picked up. It’s – it’s me, it’s Yamcha.” Pause. “Please don’t hang up.”

Bulma pursed her lips. “Hi Yamcha. What do you want?”

“B, I really want to tell you how sorry I am about Thursday night. Really, honestly, I am  _so_  sorry for the way I acted. I mean, you know me, you know I’m not normally like that,” Yamcha prattled, his monologue rushed in a way that made her think he’d rehearsed what he was going to say. She also noticed a desperate quality to his tone, similar to the way he’d sounded in past conversations, years earlier, begging her to reconsider their separation. It made her uncomfortable. Regardless, she remained silent, willing to hear what he had to say for himself before interjecting with any thoughts of her own. “I – I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry I grabbed you, and made a stupid scene. It was really unnecessary, and childish. Please, forgive me.”

She waited to see if he had anything else to add, but was met with only silence. “Yamcha, I forgive you for Thursday,” she said after a moment’s pause, swallowing the thousand critical comments that had immediately come to mind instead. “I’m not angry at you. I was just… scared, I guess.” She hesitated, playing absently with the pen she’d been using to take notes before he’d called. “I’ve been doing really well lately, and I just feel like if we start seeing each other again, it would be a step in the wrong direction for me. I’m sorry. I know you don’t agree, but I need you to understand that.”

He sighed, as though he’d expected her to say as much. “I – I know you feel that way. I just… I talked to Tien about it afterwards, and he really made me see what an ass I’ve been. You’ve been really clear about not wanting to be in contact, and I… I just have to respect that. Please forgive me for being such an idiot.”

Bulma squinted, unsure if she had heard correctly. Had he actually admitted to his own mistakes? This didn’t sound like the Yamcha she knew. “I – It’s okay, Yamcha. We were together for a long time, so I know it’s hard to completely let it go. I only want you to respect my decision, and try to see the situation from where I’m standing. I’m not doing it just to be cruel to you.”

There was a long pause on the other end, and if not for the sound of his breathing Bulma would have thought he’d hung up. Eventually, he spoke again, his voice softer. “I understand. I just felt… I felt like I never got closure when we broke up, and it really bothered me for a long time, and recently you keep popping up in my thoughts, and now recently it’s been in person, and I kind of thought it might be – I don’t know, a sign?” he laughed, a bitter sound that made Bulma’s skin prickle. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a creep. I’ll let it go, B, I promise. I don’t want to hold you back. Unless you want to talk to me first, I… I won’t bother you anymore.”

She bit distractedly on her bottom lip, nervously doodling circles on her notebook. “Thank you. Yamcha – please, let it go. Really, though, for yourself. Let  _us_  go. Move on. There are other people out there for you, I promise, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now. Focus on yourself, and what’s best for you.”

“Yeah, I guess so. Maybe.” There was another pause, before he added in a rushed tone, “B, if I had known you’d already found someone new, I wouldn’t have bothered you – please know that.” The tenor of his voice had jumped half an octave, giving it an uneasy quality. Bulma stopped drawing, confused by his words. It took her several seconds to realize he was referring to Vegeta, and that Yamcha had seen him leave with her after their altercation. She opened her mouth to correct him, to tell him Vegeta was only a classmate, but immediately thought better of it; maybe if he thought she was dating someone, he would be more inclined to lay off.

“It’s okay, Yamcha. You couldn’t have known. I appreciate you calling to apologize, though,” she said. The focus of the conversation was spiraling away from what the topic at hand was, and she was suddenly eager to get off the phone. The last thing she needed was for him to start asking for details about Vegeta. “Good luck at school, and take care, okay?”

“Yeah… Yeah, I will. Bye, B.”

After hanging up, Bulma sat at her desk quietly for a few moments, staring fixedly at the window across the room by her bed and contemplating the situation. So, that was that. Not only had Yamcha agreed to her terms, he seemed to have accepted them before even calling. She probably owned Tien Shinhan a drink – it seemed obvious that he had helped convince Yamcha to lay off.

Somehow though, puzzlingly, she felt a little emotional about officially ending what had been a major chapter in her life. Even after breaking up with Yamcha, the split had been messy enough that it had more faded away than officially ended. Now, though, it felt very final, and though that was what she wanted, it made her sad to think that that part of her life was over.

Finding herself with no will to continue her classwork, Bulma went over to lay down on her bed. She let her thoughts stumble over to past memories, ignoring the danger warning going off in her subconscious; she focused on times she and Yamcha had shared that she could still remember fondly, like when his team had won the regional baseball tournament their senior year of high school, and he’d pulled her from the stands to celebrate with the team. She had blushed and kissed him by the dugout as his teammates drenched their coach with the team drink cooler out on the pitcher’s mound.

Or, when they’d had their first Valentine’s day together, and he had made reservations at the best restaurant his measly part time job wages could afford. They’d gotten caught in traffic on the way there and decided to walk instead, only to get caught in the pouring rain, ruining her hair and makeup and soaking his suit. They had abandoned their dinner plans, and instead walked home together, splashing through puddles like children and laughing at each other.

She remembered, too, a party they had gone to together, not long after they had begun dating, a month or so before their junior year of high school started. A baseball friend of Yamcha’s had invited people to his family’s apartment, and the two of them had ended up on the roof of the building, first for a cigarette break, but then they’d stayed to admire the clear night sky. They had talked for ages about any and everything, and when it had been time to go, Bulma hadn’t wanted to leave.

She realized suddenly that that night had been the first time they’d had sex, too; they’d gotten into his car to go home, and she’d kissed him suddenly, impulsively, impassioned by an evening of honest, intimate conversation, the excitement of young love accelerating her heartbeat. They’d ended up in the back seat of his sedan, clumsy and overeager, and what had stood out to her most afterwards was how gentle he had been, despite the fact that he hadn’t known it was her first time.

Bulma stared at the ceiling of her dorm and, surprisingly, felt her eyes begin to tear up. She wasn’t in love with Yamcha anymore, no; but she had been at one point, and it now seemed to her that the cause of their separation could have been easily avoided. There had been a point when she had planned to go to college in West City to be close to him, when the two of them were going to get an apartment together, and she had imagined them getting engaged in a not so far future – however, she had recognized after some time that she was limiting herself by adhering to Yamcha’s comparatively low standards and goals, and knew she had worked too hard to sell herself short by settling for that.

In retrospect, it had been moving to South City that had really kicked the last supporting pillar out from underneath their relationship. She had been incapable of trusting him by himself in a huge school surrounded by other girls, and he had been too controlling to let her live a life that wasn’t under his thumb at every minute of the day.

But what if it hadn’t been that way? What if Yamcha had been more mature, more trusting, less willful? What if Bulma had been more patient, tried harder to be more communicative, less hot headed? Would they still be together today? Happy, maybe? Her gut ached at the idea.

It didn’t matter, though, she told herself. That wasn’t reality, and that wasn’t where they were today. They were hours apart physically, and light years apart emotionally. There was no bridging that gap anymore. It was done.

In spite of herself, Bulma rolled onto her stomach to bury her face into her pillow and began to cry in earnest. She didn’t care that this was the best course of action for both of them, and she didn’t care that they had already been broken up for ages; Yamcha had been her very first, in so many senses, and it hurt to legitimately let go of any hope that it could be fixed; because, in her heart of hearts, hadn’t there always been a miniscule, private part of her that had hoped it would all work out in the end?

She cried until she couldn’t anymore, and her breathing calmed, eventually settling into a fitful sleep.

 

*****

 

Bulma awoke early the next day, and found that she felt much less stressed than she had for weeks. Whether it was because mid-terms and all the accompanying preparations were over, or because she had been able to finally put the situation with Yamcha to rest, she wasn’t sure. Regardless, her morning classes went by smoothly, and by the time she found herself traipsing over to the liberal arts building for Spanish, she was in too good a mood to be bothered by the idea of sitting through an hour and a half of her language lecture. She was eager to get the results from the exam they’d taken the previous week, as she was sure she’d done well, and a small part of her was rather keen to see a certain grumpy neighbor as well.

She arrived to the classroom to find that Vegeta was, as usual, already there. He was wearing a pair of dark grey joggers and a navy blue hooded sweatshirt, leaning over an open notebook with his pen in hand. Bulma wondered absentmindedly if he ever wore anything that wasn’t a solid color, or sportswear.

“Hi,” she said cheerily as she plopped down in the chair next to him. He glanced at her sideways from his spot, but offered no greetings, or even a grunt to acknowledge that she’d said hello. She wondered momentarily if she should pursue a conversation, before deciding that he may not have heard her; he appeared to be reading something, after all. He must be busy.

They got their exams back almost immediately, and Bulma was relieved to find that she had, indeed, passed; in fact, she’d only gotten two questions wrong, and one had been because she had somehow stupidly overlooked it and left it blank. Her eyes raked over the test, unable to keep a smile off her face, before she looked over at Vegeta. “How’d you do?” she asked.

“Fine,” he grumbled at her, not bothering to look her way. He’d taken his exam and shoved it haphazardly into the back of his Spanish textbook. Maybe he hadn’t done as well as he’d been hoping? She didn’t push the subject.

The first half of the class was spent in lecture, reviewing the exam and answering questions, as well as going over their newest grammar topic. About forty-five minutes into the class, they were assigned a number of exercises in the book which they were free to work on until the end of the class time, to give them the opportunity to ask any questions they had while working. Bulma opened up her book, glancing over at Vegeta as she pulled out a pen. Despite having wondered if he was paying attention at all, she found him speeding through the assignment, already almost halfway done. She balked. “Vegeta,” she said suddenly, watching his speedy progress as his pen flitted easily down the page. “How are you so good at this?”

Vegeta’s shoulders tensed, hearing the question directed at him. When he stopped writing and finally looked over at her, Bulma was surprised to see a look of blatant dislike aimed at her. “I fucking pay attention, and I’m not a moron,” he retorted, and gave her another condescending glare before going back to his work.

She stared at the side of his head, dumbfounded by his hostility. Sure, she hadn’t expected a marriage proposal or anything after their conversations on Thursday, but if anything she had thought they would at least be on casually friendly terms by now. He had voluntarily stepped into the middle of her ex-boyfriend fiasco, and then walked her home, for god’s sake; didn’t that warrant at least a response to her question that wasn’t supercilious? Apparently not. Her face twisted into a frown, feeling her own temper rise.

“Well, excuse  _me_ ,” she bit back at him, turning back to her book. “Didn’t mean to interrupt you, your royal highness.”

“Well, you fucking did,” he snapped back, not bothering to cease his writing. “Now do me a favor and shut up so I can finish this.”

Bulma clenched a fist around the pen in her hand, determined not to let him get under her skin. She should have known better than to think he could be anything more than an ass. Maybe it had been alcohol at the party that had provoked such mild behavior from him; surely he had been half drunk when they’d interacted. “Oh, don’t worry. I won’t bother you any-fucking-more,” she mumbled back, violently turning to the correct page in her book.

The last half of the class was spent in tense silence as the two of them pointedly ignored each other - or, rather, Bulma tried her hardest not to reach over and hit him as he sat with his face stubbornly buried in his folded arms. As soon as the professor dismissed them, Vegeta stood fluidly and darted from his chair without so much as another look behind him. Bulma clenched her jaw as she watched him go, before her annoyance became too fierce to ignore and she found herself barging out after him.

“Vegeta!” He was halfway down the hallway by the time she made it out. Sensing he would ignore her, she rushed after him and yanked on his sleeve as she neared to slow his retreat. “Hey!”

He came to a stop, tearing his arm from her grip and fixing her with an aggravated look. “What?” he spat, fixing his sleeve.

Bulma frowned at him. “What’s the problem?” she asked haughtily, her hands on her hips. People milled about around them, giving them a wide girth in the middle of the hall. “Why are you treating me like dirt today? I thought we were past this.” If she was being honest with herself, he had hurt her feelings, but she wasn’t going to vocalize that sentiment.

Vegeta rolled his eyes so hard Bulma thought he might burst a blood vessel. “Please,” he said snidely, one side of his top lip curling up in a sneer. “Do you think I give any thought to the way I treat you? Don’t be pompous.”

She raised one of her hands to knot her fingers in her hair, afraid she might hit him otherwise. “Look here, mister,” she snapped, jabbing his bicep with an index finger, “you better cut the bullshit. I try really hard to get along with you, and you don’t put in any effort at all. I’m not asking for special treatment, but you could at least not be patronizing and rude at every chance you fucking get. I don’t deserve it!”

He stared at her briefly, his expression unusually slack for several heartbeats as though the stupidity of her response had shocked him, before he finally gave a haughty laugh. “Woman, please. I’ll stop treating you like a moron when you stop acting like one,” he said, waving her away as he started walking down the hall again. “Now get lost. Leave me alone.”

“Oh, FUCK YOU!” she yelled after him heatedly, ignoring the stares they were getting from other students as they walked down the hallway around them. Vegeta held up his middle finger as he retreated, eventually disappearing outside through the doors at the end of the hall.

Bulma stood and fumed for a moment before turning and stomping back to the classroom for her things. What gall that dickhead had. How could anyone bear his ego? She snatched her bag from the ground, stuffed her book into it, and turned on her heel to leave again without bothering to make sure she wasn’t forgetting anything. How had she ever thought they could be friends? Fuck him. He could get hit by a bus for all she cared.

She made it about halfway down the hallway, still concentrating on the number of ways she would have liked to see Vegeta meet an early demise, before her phone vibrated from inside her bag. She dug it out, agitated, and found she had a text message from Goku.

_Bulma, u coming 2 [eye emoji] [karate figure] 2day?_

“Oh, shit,” she grumbled to herself as she slowed to a stop. She’d completely forgotten she’d made plans to head over to the martial arts arena today. Days prior, she had called Goku to ask him to please let her know of any future plans for Yamcha to come visit the SCU campus, and as recompense for the awkward situation he had unintentionally had a hand in causing, Goku had offered to take her for food after practice the following Monday. In other words, today. If not for his message, she would have completely forgotten.

Except now she wasn’t sure if she wanted to go. She had a considerable amount of homework to get started on, and her argument with Vegeta had put her in a bad mood. Plus, he would be at the arena as well – the whole team would be.

Something in the back of her mind reared up in objection to that line of thinking as soon as it occurred to her. Did she really want to let Vegeta influence her decisions, to make her bail on plans she’d made with her friend?  _No_ , she thought stubbornly. She wouldn’t give him the pleasure of thinking he’d ruined her day. She quickly typed back a response.

_Yes, thanks for the reminder. Be over in a bit._

It took her over thirty minutes to get back to her dorm to drop off her things and get back across campus to the martial arts arena. By the time she arrived, there were a considerable number of people crowding into the stands surrounding the large, open martial arts floor. She knew the SCU team had scheduled some unofficial matches against a local private college, but hadn’t realized so many people would come out to support them. It wasn’t too surprising, though; she knew how popular the team was on campus, given their successful record. It was only natural that people would want to come see them do well.

Bulma found a seat towards the bottom row of bleachers, close to the floor, so she would be able to get a good view of everything happening. The visiting team was crowded on the mat nearby, all in dark blue uniforms, and the South City team was across the auditorium, wearing the bright orange that constituted one of their school colors. Her eyes skimmed the group and finally found Goku’s unruly head of hair as he turned to face the crowd. She waved wildly, trying to catch his attention, and smiled as he waved back at her. She noticed Krillin behind him, talking to Piccolo, and after a moment of searching found Vegeta, all by himself on the far edge of the team’s group, arms crossed over his chest moodily. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes at his petulant posture.

The matches started soon thereafter, with SCU sending out a short, squat boy Bulma didn't recognize to the center circle. It was a quick match, unfortunately, that did not end in their favor; the opponent from the other team hardly seemed to be the same weight class as the SCU representative, as he towered over him, and was able to wrangle him into submission a mere three minutes after the match began. The short boy in orange sulked back over to where his team was gathered, looking embarrassed, as the winner jogged back towards the visiting group to cheers of congrats from his teammates. Bulma watched Goku pat his losing companion on the back, all smiles, and wondered vaguely how someone so optimistic had ended up with Chi Chi.

The next few matches took longer, but ended - for the most part - in their favor: there had been a nasty KO in the second match that had tipped the scales at 2 to nothing in favor of the visitors, but Piccolo was able to get a win in the following match notwithstanding a nasty right hook to the jaw that sent him stumbling. Another tall SCU representative Bulma didn’t recognize was able to get his opponent to tap out after pulling him into an unyielding headlock in the match after that. Even Krillin was able to get in a win: despite being nearly half a foot shorter than his challenger, he managed a roundhouse kick to the ribs that landed hard enough to leave the other guy on the ground, panting and wincing in pain. Bulma had cheered loudly for Krillin among the applause as he jogged back over to his team, grinning widely.

After two blue clad athletes were able to help their hurt teammate off the mat, the display screen hanging from the middle of the ceiling changed to reflect the names of the two next competitors. “V BREIGH VS C KYUI” appeared boldly in the middle of the screen. Bulma turned to look at the center circle, and sure enough, there stood a large, broad shouldered boy in blue across from Vegeta, who was standing with his hands behind his back, his face turned towards the ground as he waited for the instruction to begin.

If he was at all bothered by the fact that his opponent towered over him, Vegeta masked it well; if anything, he looked bored. Bulma watched as the other boy – “Kyui”, according to the screen - turned briefly to look back at his teammates, his arms crossed over his chest and a haughty smirk plastered across his face. She knew that Vegeta could handle himself well, recalling the previous sparring match with Goku she had witnessed with Eighteen several weeks earlier; however, this guy was considerably larger, and despite the anger she still felt for the nasty way he’d treated her not even an hour earlier, she felt trepidation unwittingly curl in her stomach as the referee stepped forward and dropped his hands in front of them, signaling the beginning of the match.  

Kyui let his arms fall to his sides and began bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet. Vegeta looked up and settled into a comfortable position, his feet staggered, waiting for Kyui to move. Bulma’s heart thudded dully in her chest as the seconds ticked by.  _Raise your fists, you moron!_

Kyui watched Vegeta, still bobbing, before suddenly moving forward and lashing out with his right first. Vegeta’s forearm easily darted up to counter, shielding his face from the blow. Kyui began to circle, forcing Vegeta to move, before his leg darted out in an attempt to land a kick to the side. Again, Vegeta countered simply, continuing to circle until his back was facing Bulma and she could no longer see the self-assured look on his face. Instead, she saw Kyui, whose own expression had changed from one of confidence to one of concentration. He waited another moment before attempting to land another punch.

This time Vegeta rebuffed the attack and added one of his own. His fist darted out and smacked Kyui on the jaw, causing his controlled bouncing to falter as he stumbled to the side. He snapped his face back up to look at Vegeta, and his brow furrowed in annoyance as he readjusted himself, his fists raised. He was barely able to get back into position before Vegeta threw another punch at him and caught him in the gut. He winced, retreating slightly, his fists still raised as they continued to circle.

Bulma scooted to the edge of her seat, her chin planted firmly on the palms of her hands as she watched the interaction intently, the crowd full of restless noise around her. There had blatantly been no need to worry for Vegeta’s ability to protect himself, and yet she couldn’t help but feel anxious still. Bulma had always been a fretful spectator: whether it was at Goku and Krillin’s martial arts tournaments or Yamcha’s baseball games, she was always gnawing at her thumb nail, unable to tear her eyes away from whatever was happening. It was a habit that drove Eighteen mad, as she was hardly ever interested in what was happening and wanted nothing more than to engage Bulma in gossipy conversation.

She sucked air between her teeth as Kyui again came lunging forward towards Vegeta, who side stepped, allowing his adversary to flail past lamely. He turned back around to retaliate, only for Vegeta to be waiting with a jab to the face that sent him sprawling to the floor. Against her better judgement, Bulma cheered, eager to release some of the tension she felt. She knew it wasn’t customary to hoot and holler during martial arts matches, but she had gotten a reputation for being the loud onlooker, this from her years of going to Goku’s tournaments with Chi Chi, who couldn’t stay quiet if you paid her.

Kyui pulled himself up slowly, rolling his shoulders and shaking out his arms as he did so, a nasty expression aimed at Vegeta. As he gathered himself from the ground, Bulma saw him say something, but was unfortunately too far to hear what it was. Vegeta glowered at the comment, but said nothing, evoking loud, derisive laughter from Kyui that travelled cleanly to where Bulma was sitting. She strained to try to catch the next thing he said as his lips began moving again, but couldn’t, and instead only saw the reaction it got from Vegeta.

The self-assuredness disappeared from his face, and was instead replaced with a nasty grimace as his jaw tightened. Kyui was still leering as they continued to circle, his fists held at chest level. Had she blinked, Bulma would have missed Vegeta’s sudden sideswipe, so quickly did his foot flit out to trip his opponent, which again caused Kyui to go sailing to the ground. This time, though, Vegeta didn’t let him get up; instead, he was on top of him in an instant, a barrage of punches railing his upper body. Punch after punch solidly connected with Kyui’s head, which bounced dully off the mat with each impact. Bulma was beginning to grow uneasy with the unrelenting assault when the referee’s whistle finally sounded to signal the end of the match.

She started to clap, relieved it was over and that Vegeta had come out victorious, but faltered when she realized Vegeta hadn’t stopped hitting the other boy. Whether he hadn’t heard the whistle or had simply ignored it, Bulma was unsure; whatever the case, his fists continued to rain down on what by now had to be an unconscious adversary. She brought a hand to her face, unsure if she wanted to continue watching. Realizing he wasn’t stopping, the referee whistled again, more loudly. When Vegeta still refused to cease the beating, the ref hurried over and attempted to pry Vegeta off the inert Kyui only to be met with a shove of his own.

Before Bulma realized what was happening, an entire scene had broken out around her. Goku raced across the floor with coach Kaio to pry Vegeta away. Goku grabbed him from around the shoulders and hauled him off as the referee kneeled next to the bloodied, unmoving Kyui. Several people from the visiting entourage ran from their group to where their teammate lay. Coach Kaio began shouting at Vegeta, who had shrugged off Goku’s hold and was walking away, towards the far corner of the ring where the locker room entrances sat. Bulma suddenly realized she had stood up, along with several other people in the bleachers who were trying to get a look at the damage down on the mat.

Bulma, though, wasn’t looking to see as Kyui was gingerly helped off the ground several minutes later, his eye swollen and his face bloody from what had to be a broken nose; instead, she watched as Vegeta’s figure disappeared around the corner of the stands and through the door beyond. She felt compelled to run after him, to see what the hell was going through his head, but thought better of it given his obviously dangerous attitude and instead conformed herself to sitting and watching him go.

 

*****

 

Bulma waited outside the locker room exit for the better part of thirty minutes following the matches, hoping to catch Vegeta, but he had either left far earlier or was staying late, as he never came out. She turned down Goku’s offer for food, agreeing on a rain check, and instead walked back to her dorm by herself as the sun set lazily beyond the horizon.

There were very few other students outside as she made her way across campus and up the hill to her building, which she attributed to the fact that it was the first Monday after exams, and most people were probably inundated with homework for the start of the second half of the semester. Part of her brain acknowledged that she, too, had a mountain of work waiting for her, but she pushed that thought away.

As she walked, she mulled over Vegeta’s fight, wondering vaguely what Kyui might have said to set him off. Did they know each other somehow? What were the chances that they had a longstanding grudge of some short? Slim, Bulma thought – he had just told her that he wasn’t even from South City, so how would he randomly know someone from a local school?

Maybe there had been no trigger at all. Maybe he was just a hothead, a dimwitted athlete with a dangerous temper. Despite not wanting to believe this, it seemed more reasonable. She had seen the way he acted around other people before: cold, withdrawn, uninterested, flat out rude. Hell, he was consistently nasty to her, for no reason other than her wanting to have a friendly conversation. If she couldn’t begin to puzzle out why he treated her the way he did, how was she supposed to understand why he acted unreasonably with others? He and Kyui had been in open combat, after all – maybe Vegeta was just violent by nature and enjoyed kicking the snot of out his adversaries. She thought back to the first practice she had gone to watch, when he had nearly knocked out his own teammate during a simple practice, and shook her head, remembering the black eye Krillin had sported for days following that particular incident.

As she got out of the elevator on the second floor and began to make her way around to her apartment, Bulma noticed someone sitting down in the courtyard. She knew immediately that it was Vegeta; although he was sitting on one of the picnic tables with his face turned downwards and out of view, his hair was unmistakable. His elbows were resting on his knees and his hands were cupping the back of his neck, allowing her to observe his heavily bandaged knuckles. She slowed to a stop as she approached her door, observing his dejected posture and debating whether she should go see if he was okay. Would he be touched that she cared, or annoyed that she had bothered him? Would he be embarrassed? Although she still didn’t know him terribly well, everything she did know told her he had an insufferable ego, and being caught during what looked to be a vulnerable moment for him might be too much to deal with, especially after such a charged match.

She watched him for another moment before huffily opting to go inside and leave him to his thoughts. Vegeta had made it perfectly clear during their Spanish class that he didn’t want her to badger him anymore, and despite her gut telling her that she might be able to help him, that his malice towards others was probably a sign of a deeper issue, and that he probably needed a friend, her own pride was unwilling to overlook the nasty way he’d treated her.

She unlocked her apartment and let herself inside, allowing the door to close noisily behind her. In spite of the beginnings of any feelings she may have thought she had for Vegeta, Bulma was averse to letting him walk all over her just because he might be in a bad mood. Yes, she wanted to be his friend, but until he apologized for his caustic behavior, she refused to be nice anymore. The boy obviously had some of his own issues to work out first, anyway; maybe some quiet time to reflect was what he needed.

So, that was it. End of story. No more talking to Vegeta, picking on Vegeta, thinking about Vegeta, at all, until he was willing to play nice. That was that.

 

*****

Bulma’s moratorium on all Vegeta related thoughts lasted a full three days before she found herself unable to keep it together anymore.

Tuesday and Wednesday were busy days for her, and she was luckily able to plunge headfirst into her classes, which offered up plenty of opportunities to keep both her mind and body busy. She spent a good portion of Tuesday afternoon in the library, and then didn’t get home from the lab on Wednesday until after eleven in the evening. She was honestly too busy to spare any time to thinking about Vegeta until she was walking to their Thursday afternoon Spanish class, and suddenly realized she would still have to sit next to his stubborn ass regardless of how she currently felt about him.

What was the big deal, anyway? What was there about him that made her so jittery? Sure, they had been sitting next to each other for a few months, and enjoyed harassing one another, and there had been the incident at the frat party – but how did all that equate to a childish crush? What kind of masochist was she? He hadn’t really given her any reason to like him, apart from his stunning physical qualities, so why did he get under her skin so easily? Why did she care at all about how he felt, or what issues he might be going through? She shouldn’t, really. It was none of her business. And he still hadn’t apologized for being a jerk, so as far as she was concerned, he didn’t exist.

With renewed resolve, Bulma marched into classroom 9056A and back to her table, ready to blast Vegeta with the coldest shoulder she could muster.

Except, he wasn’t there.

Bulma glanced around as she put her things down, checking to make sure he hadn’t gone the coward’s route and snuck off to another seat; however, she quickly realized she couldn’t find his signature flame of hair anywhere, and frowned. This was decidedly not normal – in the two months that she had been sitting next to Vegeta, not only had he never come late, but had also never arrived after she had, and she was always sure to be there at least ten minutes before the class began. She sat down, assuring herself that he was, after all, a human being, and had maybe gotten caught up in something else that was making him late.

Minutes ticked by, the class began, and still, Vegeta didn't arrive. Bulma tapped her finger anxiously on the tabletop, her eyes flicking to the door embarrassingly frequently. Okay, so he was  _really_  late. That was okay, too. Maybe he had a practice that was holding him up. An idea dawned on her as this thought came to mind. She bent over to dig her phone out of her bag as Professor Snyder gibbered on about irregular verbs at the front of the class.

 _Goku_ , she typed, her thumbs jabbing at her phone screen,  _where are you? Do you have MA practice?_

It took Goku all of thirty seconds to respond, but it wasn’t with the answer she’d been hoping for.

_No its l8r. [burger emoji] @ cafe now. Sup?_

She groaned inwardly as she read his message, both at the content and his terrible orthography, before tossing her phone back into her bag. Training was the only decent reason she could think of that Vegeta wouldn’t have come to class, and now that pretense had been proved incorrect. Where else could he be?

 _More importantly_ , a voice in the back of her mind complained,  _why did it matter?_  She should enjoy the chance to pay attention and learn something without having to worry about his criticisms. She stewed in her seat, tapping her pen against her open notebook. So, he acted like an asshole - yes, that had been made abundantly clear. Still, every interaction Bulma had had with Vegeta had showed him to be an asshole with a very rigid set of standards, and both punctuality and consistency seemed to be among them. He was decidedly not a person who would just blow off class - even a class he found obnoxiously simple, like Spanish. So, there had to be a good reason for his absence, and it was this that inexplicably nagged at her.

Was he absent because he had been expelled for his incident on Monday in the martial arts arena? She thought that unlikely, as Kyui had come to pretty quickly, and although he'd had to be seen by a paramedic, hospitalization had luckily not been necessary. 

Maybe he had lost track of time. Wasn’t there a possibility that he could have been in the gym, working out, and just not realized that it was already three o’clock? If he worked out before Spanish, that would also explain why he always seemed to be in sportswear. Still, though, for as anal and rigid as he seemed to be, she doubted Vegeta would be so careless as to not pay attention to the clock, especially when he knew he had a class coming up.

What if he had dropped the class altogether? Her stomach squeezed weirdly at the possibility, making her feel vaguely unsettled. Maybe he had gotten sick of her nonsense, of her constantly disturbing him with questions and comments, of her snide remarks and intentional attempts to make him uncomfortable. Maybe he really didn’t want to be her friend, or know her at all, and the rude things he’d said to her hadn’t just been because he was in a bad mood. She realized suddenly that the entire time she had known Vegeta, she’d been operating under the impression that he was putting up a front, being a standoffish jerk for some reason other than the possibility that he maybe just didn’t like her. Perhaps there was no nicer, more approachable Vegeta under his surely exterior. Maybe that was just it.

No, there was no way that was true. She refused to believe it. First of all, she had already seen a peek of the person Vegeta could be when he relaxed a little, and was sure there was more of that personality in there somewhere. Secondly, he very plainly had some of his own problems going on, and though she wasn’t sure what they were, she thought it likely that they were the source of his agitation and anger, not her. She was just an innocent bystander who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, inadvertently poking the bear. That didn’t mean that he didn’t owe her an apology all the same – but, still, it helped her own forgiveness to try to understand where he might be coming from.

Lastly, she just didn’t  _want_  to believe he really hated her guts. For as obnoxious and frustrating as he could be, Bulma bizarrely enjoyed Vegeta’s company. He was like a puzzle that she was determined to solve. There was so much about him that she didn’t know, and his apparent resolve to keep it that way made her more captivated with getting to know him. He didn’t want to let her get close to him, and that made her want it all the more. Of course, it certainly didn’t hurt that he appeared to have been carved from marble, a modern day Adonis if ever she had seen one. He just needed to become an apologetic Adonis, and then all would be well.

By the time Spanish came to a crawling end – there  _had_  to be something wrong with the clock in that classroom; time was simply not supposed to tick by so damn slowly – Bulma had made up her mind to hunt down Vegeta and get to the bottom of his disappearance. Whatever the reason for his absence, she wanted to know what the hell it was. She didn’t care if he griped at her, and complained about her bothering him, and told her to mind her own business; if he asked why she had come looking for him, she would say that he owed her an apology, and she’d come to collect. Yeah, that sounded feasible.

She thought briefly about heading across campus and into town to where the Kappa Lambda Chi house was, but then remembered that he had told her he didn’t actually live there. He had said he had a dorm across campus, but where? There were any number of dorm buildings within the confines of South City University’s campus limits, and going door to door in each of them would take her hours. She mulled it over for a moment before nixing that option, and deciding she would start at the most logical place: her own building. If she didn’t know where she could find Vegeta, she at least knew where to find people who might.

Thirty minutes later, she stood outside of the scuffed white door she had seen Vegeta and his two friends disappear through on multiple occasions from her safe perch up on the second floor balcony. She felt oddly nervous; she was sure that whoever his friends were, they wouldn’t hurt her, but she still imagined they had to be pretty callous themselves to be friends with Vegeta in the first place. She set her jaw firmly, resolving herself to not be intimidated, and raised her fist to rap firmly on the door.

It took a few seconds, but after a moment she heard movement from beyond the door, and then it swung open to reveal the large, bulky bald youth she had seen multiple times from afar but never up close. Now that she was merely a hands distance away from him, she noticed he was definitely older than she was – at least late twenties – and seemed much taller up close. She turned her head to gaze up at him stubbornly.

He, in turn, glared down at her, and immediately rolled his eyes and groaned. “Ugh, are you here for Raditz?” he complained contemptuously. Before she could answer, he turned and called over his shoulder. “RADITZ! Some chick here for you!”

“Hey, hey, wait – I’m not here for him, I’m not - ” Bulma started to explain, but he had already stalked off, leaving the door wide open. Something foul hit her nose, a sour, pungent odor like hot garbage, and she made a face, taking a step backwards and moving her face to the side to escape it as the sound of footsteps neared.

“Really? Who is it – whoa, who are you?”

She looked up again and saw that the other oaf had appeared in the doorway, his long, bushy hair cascading around his shoulders. He was wearing a pair of sweatpants, but no shirt, though he seemed unbothered by the cool weather. Bulma ignored his question.

“What is that awful fucking smell?” she griped, waving her hand in front of her face and scrunching up her nose in disgust. Raditz shrugged at her, glancing behind himself back into the apartment.

“Dunno. Maybe the trashcan? Oh – there’s some old milk on the counter, too. Who knows,” he dismissed, looking back at her. He took her in for a moment, his eyes dancing down her body, and he gave her a small, sly smile. “So, you’re here for me, huh?”

“Uh, no,” Bulma replied flatly, crossing her arms across her chest. She was dressed plainly, in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, but still felt a little exposed under his analytical stare. “I’m here to see if you know where I can find Vegeta.”

Raditz’s eyes widened and he burst out laughing. “Vegeta? You’re trying to hit up  _Vegeta_?” he asked through his chuckles, raising an eyebrow at her. “Oh, babe, forget it. He doesn’t like being pursued, and he doesn’t do seconds. One and done, that’s it. You’d have better luck squeezing blood from a stone. Me, on the other hand - ”

“I’m not trying to ‘ _hit him up’_ ,” she interrupted abruptly, uninterested in hearing the rest of his sentence. “We have a class together and he wasn’t there today. I just wanted to check in on him, and, uh – give him our assignments.”

“Oh,” Raditz said, looking like she’d taken away a toy he’d been playing with. “Well in that case, I don’t know. He’s not here. I guess he might be at his own dorm? I don’t know if you want to go over there, though, he really doesn’t like being visited unannounced - ”

Again, Bulma cut him off, indifferent to his commentary. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. What building is his dorm in?” she asked flatly, putting a hand on her hip. Raditz appraised her again, his eyebrow lifting slightly, before he gave her another grin and spoke again.

“He’s in the Jefferson building. He’s apartment – 425? I think it’s 425,” he said, shrugging again, the grin still plastered on his face. “But, hey, if you get lost or change your mind you’re always welcome to come back here. I like my ladies bossy.”

“Yeah, don’t count on it,” Bulma said, making a face at him as she turned to walk away. “Thanks for the info. And clean your damn apartment!”

“I’ll clean it if you promise to come back!” Raditz called after her. She decided not to entertain that offer with a response, and disappeared around the corner of the building to head in the direction of the Jefferson dorms without another word.

While Bulma herself had never been in the Jefferson building, she had heard about it plenty, and knew exactly where it sat, tucked behind the building that housed performance arts auditorium on the other side of the cafeteria. It was the newest dorm building on campus, recently built with branch new furnishings and designs, and had been the center of a lot of contention a few months prior when everyone was filling out their room request forms for the coming year. The Jefferson had been built with condos for four on the first two floors, and singles and doubles on the top two, and had of course been the first choice for many upperclassmen looking to either get a room with their friends or find a place for themselves. Too many requests had been received to be honored, and the registrar staff had had to indiscriminately choose who got in and who didn’t. There had been a lot of drama around seniors deserving preference, and first come first serve, ect cetera; Bulma, though, had ignored most of the controversy, as she was perfectly happy in her old, crummy building with Eighteen.

As she walked into the lobby of the edifice, however, she began to see what all the fuss had been about. The interior was incredibly sleek and modern, with marble floors spanning the entrance, and the walls painted a silky grey color. There were light fixtures donning the walls along the corridors as well as smaller LED lights along the baseboards, which reminded her vividly of something she might have seen on a spaceship in a science fiction movie. She gazed down the hallway at the doors lining the space, and realized they all had electronic card readers in place of doorknobs. These must have been the kinds of novelty features everyone had thought were worth fighting over.

She scurried over to the elevator as a small group of girls boarded – luckily, as she noticed the elevators, too, required a scanned card to operate – and pushed the button for the fourth floor. They glided smoothly upwards, and as the elevator dinged pleasantly to let her know she’d arrived, she walked out and looked side to side, trying to make sense of where she needed to go next.  _Raditz said 425, which means it has to be this way…_  She turned to the left, looking at the numbers on the plain black doors as she walked.

Number 425 was halfway down the hall, on the right. She paused outside of it, suddenly feeling a little nervous. What the hell was she doing? What if he was pissed she had showed up at his dorm unannounced, like Raditz had said? Worse yet, what if he wasn’t here at all? She exhaled slowly, and reached up to lightly knock.

 

*****

 

Vegeta did  _not_  get sick.

In the more than two decades that he had been alive, he could remember only a single occurrence in which he had been too physically ill to leave the house, and he had been a much younger, just an elementary aged child, when it had happened. Sure, he had had times since then when he’d gotten colds, or been congested, or had even milder symptoms, like headaches (which seemed to plague him all too frequently these days) – but full on body aches, coughing fits, vomiting? It had been well over a decade.

When he awoke on Tuesday morning feeling groggy and sore, he had been sure it was a side effect from his scrimmage match the day before. No fists or feet had actually connected with his body, no; however, sometimes the amount of energy he exerted when kicking someone else’s ass was great enough to equate to a good workout, and if he wasn’t at least a little sore after a workout it meant he hadn’t gone hard enough. He certainly had given Kyui’s face his all at the end, and then done the same with the punching bag in the locker room immediately afterwards, having been unable to vent all the rage he still felt bursting within him. That had to be the cause.

By Wednesday, though, he knew something was out of the ordinary. He’d rolled out of bed at his usual pre-dawn hour of 4:30, and felt an immediate wave of nausea overcome him. His head had spun, forcing him to close his eyes to regain some semblance of equilibrium, and his stomach churned uncomfortably. Had he eaten something that had upset his stomach? He’d thought back through the previous forty-eight hours and was left with no obvious answers – the only things he’d eaten had been whatever he had prepped for the week on Sunday, which was really just a lot of chicken breasts, hard boiled eggs, and protein bars. It had certainly never failed him before, so why would it suddenly be an issue now?

He had forced himself through his normal routine nonetheless, feeling more miserable each step of the way. Lunch had seemed an overall impossibility, which in and of itself was an anomaly given his usual grandiose appetite, but even despite not eating, Vegeta spent the entirety of his afternoon lecture trying to convince himself not to vomit all over his desk. What had really forced him to recognize that he was sick, though, had been his willingness to skip his evening gym session. His entire body hurt by that point, and not in the satisfying way it normally did after he’d pushed his limits via physical activity, but in an awful, throbbing, down-to-the-bone way that made him want to crawl into bed and never leave again. His mouth salivated in the dangerous way that let him know he was about to puke, and he’d broken out into a cold sweat, despite the cool temperatures outside. Although he had started walking over to the sports arena, where Raditz was sure to be waiting for him, Vegeta realized he wasn’t going to make it the whole way there, much less be able to squeeze out an entire workout, and instead forced himself to turn around to go back to his dorm.

Thursday, then, had been an obvious failure from the start. His alarm sounded raucously at its regular hour, but Vegeta found no will to leave the comfort of his bedsheets, and weakly shut off the blaring noise with no intent to actually get up. He was awake, yes, but due only to the various hours of uncomfortable tossing and turning he’d found himself condemned to upon returning home the prior evening. He waffled between hours of complete unconscious bliss and long periods of insomnia, when his body throbbed and his stomach roiled and he couldn’t get comfortable regardless of the way he laid, being too hot with blankets and far too cold without.

There was no way he was going to make it through classes today. What day even was it? He stared miserably at the ceiling for several long moments before he was able to rationalize that it was Thursday, it had to be Thursday. That meant he had a quick economics lecture in the morning, followed by several free hours, and Spanish at three o’clock. He rolled over to slap at his phone again from where it lay on the bedside table, and managed to send one very concise email to both of his professors:  _“Professor – I am unexpectedly ill and will not be in class today. I will email you the classwork per the syllabus as soon as I am able. Thank you.”_

He had convicted himself to house arrest for the rest of the day, and thankfully had had very few interruptions, aside from several obnoxious messages from Nappa and Raditz that came through their group chat in the early afternoon, which he promptly ignored. Vegeta was sure that if he gave himself a single, full day of rest, he would be better in the morning and able to jump back into his routine. There was no alternative option, really; he had no time or space for physical impediments, especially as there were several tournaments quickly approaching that he needed to be in top condition for – rather, better thank  _Kakarot_  for. Normally Vegeta would have forced himself to power through, illness be damned – mental tenacity was the key to achieving physical fortitude, after all, and he relied heavily on the stability of his routine to keep up with his athleticism – but at this point he was trembling and cold, and wasn’t even sure his legs could hold his own weight for an extended period of time, much less that of several hundred pounds of stacked plates on a barbell. Even if he had tried, he very well might have injured himself, which would have put him out of commission for a much longer period of time than what it would take to recover from a simple illness. It would have been stupid.

And so, despite a particularly dark and critical part of his conscience vocally chastising what was very obviously a moment of weakness – somehow this was a failing of his own doing, he was sure of it - Vegeta spent his day in bed, punctuated by urgent trips to the bathroom to vomit up the quickly dwindling contents of his stomach. He swam in and out of cognizance, feeling equally as exhausted after waking up as he had before falling asleep, and sweating, despite also being plagued by a constant chill. He had stripped down to nothing more than a pair of boxer shorts, having felt smothered by pants and a sweatshirt, but clung to his blankets, unwilling to let any air touch his bare skin.

Vegeta’s phone vibrated violently against his bedside table, ripping him from the edges of sleep he’d been about to toss himself over again. He growled, knowing it was fucking Raditz asking him to go out drinking for the fifth goddamn time that day, and wondered why he continued to tolerate the presence of someone so lack witted in his life.  _If I didn’t answer the first four fucking messages, I’m not going to answer the fifth._

He snaked an arm out from his comforter to snatch the phone up and scrolled to the chat. Indeed, it was from Raditz – but it wasn’t the content he’d been expecting.

_Some babe came looking for you here. Sent her your way._

He scowled, wondering if his illness had started causing him to hallucinate as well. What the fuck was he talking about? What babe? He pulled his other arm up from the warm confines of his blankets to message Raditz back, asking as much.

_Who the fuck are you talking about?_

There was a several minute pause before Raditz responded.

_Didn’t get her name. Cute little thing. Blue hair. If you don’t want her, send her back to me._

Vegeta blanched. He had seen all of one female on campus – hell,  _ever_  – that had blue hair, and she was the last person he wanted turning up to his apartment while he was in the throes of the flu. Agitated, he decided to forgo further attempts to get information out of Raditz via message, and called him instead. He picked up after two rings.

“Hello - ”

“Raditz, you fucking idiot,” Vegeta hissed immediately, his voice hoarse. “What the fuck do you mean you ‘sent her my way’? Did you give her my dorm number?”

“Uh, well, yeah, she asked where you would be and since you weren’t here, I figured you’d be there. Aren’t you?”

“Fucking yes I am, but I’m sick as a dog. I don’t want any fucking  _visitors_  right now!” he snarled back. He closed his eyes, feeling a fresh wave of nausea washing over him.

“Oh. Well, you didn’t answer any of my messages this morning! How was I supposed to know?” Raditz complained dumbly. “Fuck, I told you if you don’t want her, send her back to me! I’ll take care - ”

“Shut up, you fucking idiot! That’s not the issue! Goddamnit,” he snapped, and cut the call without further warning.

Vegeta lay inert for several moments before forcing himself into a sitting position. What the woman wanted was beyond him – he had certainly never been nice enough to her to warrant her constant barrage of attention, and yet he found himself consistently fleeing her attempts at social niceties whenever he was forced into her presence. He knew she wasn’t stupid; despite some obvious struggles with Spanish, her prowess in the science field was well known around campus, and he was sure she had plenty of common sense to accompany her academic smarts. Regardless, she didn’t seem capable of recognizing his efforts at distancing himself from her, and continually tried to engage him in conversation.

He should have never talked to her at the frat party, he knew that now. Her presence had surprised him; he had planned on looking for female company while there, yes, but certainly hadn’t imagined there would be any _talking_ involved, much less that it would be with her. She had looked surprisingly different from her normal persona, having traded in her jeans and tee shirt for a top that bared her midriff and a skirt that grazed her thighs, and he’d been too shocked by the juxtaposition of the two in his mind to turn and run the other way.

What had been even more alarming had been the fact that their conversation hadn’t made him want to escape. Instead, he’d been inexplicably pulled towards her as the discussion progressed, as she actually asked him about himself instead of blabbing about herself, watched him with an expression of earnest interest that showed she was actually listening, and laughed cutely at his off the cuff comments instead of looking confused by his biting humor. He had enjoyed it, enjoyed her, and had almost told Raditz to fuck off when he came by to swoop in and drag him off to their normal group of meat headed colleagues. It had been a relatively short conversation, but he knew his opinion of her had changed as soon as it was over.

Even prior to the party, though, Vegeta had begun to appreciate the woman’s wit. He enjoyed that she was ready to sling wry comments back at him whenever he said something crude, that she tested him as much as he did her. It didn’t hurt, either, that she was easy on the eyes, that he found himself looking at her when she wasn’t paying attention and appreciating the way her nose wrinkled when she was concentrating on something. It may have been that sentimentality, then, that lapse in his usual unshakeable dedication to self-preservation and solitude that had urged him to walk her home that same evening. Vegeta had walked into the confrontation she had in the front yard when it was already nearly done, as she was wrenching herself from the grasp of the pathetic asshole with the ugly scar. She had looked scared, and upset, and angry, and he had felt an unpleasant, abnormal possessiveness come over him.

He knew he had no right to feel that way – they were barely more than acquaintances, classmates who tolerated each other on the best of days – but the way that she had treated him earlier, the honest interest she had shown in getting to know more about him if for nothing more than wanting to  _know_  him, appeared to temporarily turn his brain to mush. Had he ever been on the receiving end of that kind of attention? Women tried to approach him, yes, but their interests generally lay only as far as their eyes could see, and as soon as he opened his mouth they usually dispersed, discouraged by his caustic attitude; if not that, they put up with it long enough for him to bed them, which was fine with him as that was usually his only intention to begin with. This woman, though, seemed to see right though it; she dismissed his comments with an indifferent flick of the wrist and plowed forward, backing him into a corner until he was left with no alternatives or witty remarks, trapped and tongue-tied and exposed. It unnerved him, and yet somehow also thrilled him. There was a je ne se quoi she had that made him want to _conquer_ her. It humiliated him to admit it, even to himself.

After he’d accompanied her home that night, Vegeta spent several days thinking it over before deciding that he had to distance himself from her. The want to hook her and reel her in was strong, yes, but more important was the need for self-preservation and focus on his own goals. There was too much potential for him to lose control in that dynamic – she had a way of worming herself under his skin and unbalancing him, rendering him with no answers or means of defense, and it was throwing him off. He had begun to find his thoughts reflexively drifting to her randomly throughout the day: as he was waiting for a bench to free up at the gym, as Raditz bickered with Nappa about what to watch on TV, as he waited for his laundry to finish drying in the building’s collective washing room. She was turning him into a sentimental food, and it felt dangerous; as much as he felt drawn to her challenging nature, he did not like feeling impotent, and he refused to risk putting himself in her hands in any way.

Unfortunately, the only way Vegeta knew how to distance himself from anyone was through cruelty. He had thought unashamedly ignoring her might do the trick, but in their class on Monday she had blundered onward, persisting in asking him questions and trying to trick him into conversation, and he had found himself forced into abrupt malice. That had seemed to work for a while; after snapping at her, she had fallen silent for the remainder of the class, and he had left thinking he had succeeded. Victory had been short-lived, though, as she had chased him into the hallway to boldly confront him, and he had again been shocked at her persistence. Did she have no self-respect? What kind of person let themselves be treated that way, and still pursued the offender?

And yet, as he had watched her yelling at him, her fine features crumpled in anger, he’d been overcome with the provocative urge to grab her by the chin and smash her lips against his, to silence her once and for all, and to grab her by the thighs and hoist her into his arms, to take back control of the situation. It had thrown him for a loop entirely, and he’d found himself staring at her stupidly before throwing another rude remark her way and finally escaping, feeling cowardly.

And now, here she was again, barging into his life and demanding his attention, invitations be damned. What could she possibly want from him that couldn’t wait until their next Spanish class? Unless it was Spanish related. Maybe she was bringing him the assignments from earlier, as he’d been absent. She was just nice enough to do that, the bitch.

Vegeta was torn from his reverie by a sudden curt knock at his front door, and an abrupt feeling of dread joined the queasiness currently ravaging his gut. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, wishing she would just leave, before a second knock sounded impatiently from the entrance. Groaning inwardly, he rose slowly from his warm safe haven of blankets, and made his way to the door.

It wasn’t until he was wrenching the door open that he remembered he was only wearing boxer shorts, and by then it was too late to turn around and find something more suitable. Oh well. At the very least he could try to make her as uncomfortable as she often made him – he was quite confident in his physique, but maybe the sight of him in what was essentially underwear would make her squirm.

Sure enough, there she stood on the other side of the entrance, her cheeks still rosy from the cold walk over to his building. He saw her eyes widen marginally at what he assumed was his shameless lack of clothing, and suppressed a smirk despite how miserable he felt. “What?” he barked at her, trying his best not to shiver at the frigid air leaking in from the hallway.

She brought her eyes up to his face – those damned, big, blue eyes – and he was surprised to see what looked like anguish on her face. “Vegeta, you look  _awful_ ,” she said, and to his horror reached out to press her hand to his face without warning. “Are you alright?”

He flinched away from her touch, startled by the gesture. “I’m fine,” he wheezed, doing his best not to give in to the urge to begin coughing. “What the hell are you doing here? What do you want?”

She frowned, letting her hand fall back to her side. “You weren’t in Spanish, and I got worried,” she said simply, still studying his features intently. “I thought something might be wrong, and I was right. You’re sick, aren’t you? Have you been to the doctor?”

He scoffed at her concern, pointedly ignoring the odd feeling of warmth in the pit of his stomach. “You weren’t right, woman. I’m fine. It’s just a cold,” he said flatly. Another feeling of nausea crashed into him, and he gripped the open door for support. “Anything else? Are we done here?”

“Have you been to the doctor?” she repeated, looking at him stubbornly. “What symptoms do you have?”

Vegeta squeezed his eyes shut, both in an attempt to gather his patience as well as to stifle the need to vomit. “I don’t need to go to the goddamn doctor. I’m… I’m fucking  _fine_ ,” he said, doing his best to fight the burning sensation working its way up his throat.

“You really don’t look fine. Have you taken your temperature? Let me take it, at least,” she urged, eyeing him suspiciously. “You’re terribly pale, and all sweaty. You look feverish.”

He couldn’t hold it off anymore. “Well, I’m not. Now – I – I’ll be right back. Wait here, for just a minute,” Vegeta ordered. He closed the door partially, leaving it ajar so as to not shut it in her face, and turned to head into the bathroom, whose door he’d left open throughout the day to facilitate his emergency breaks. He fell to his knees at the toilet as he involuntarily began heaving, though there was now very little left in his system after a day of not eating.

It took several minutes to for his stomach to stop lurching, but after emptying his stomach of what seemed to primarily be bile, he was finally able to regain his composure. He laid his face on the edge of the toilet seat, panting, a dull ache emanating from his temples.

“Vegeta, look at you,” Bulma sighed from behind him, causing him to start in surprise. He tried to get off the floor and instead only managed to slump himself into a sitting position on the edge of the tub, where he grumpily glared at her, standing in the bathroom doorway.

“I didn’t invite you in here, woman,” he griped, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He was all too aware of that fact that he looked like hell, but was too sore and tired to care. “I told you, I’m  _fine_. Now get out of here, unless there’s something else you want?”

“I want you to stop being so goddamn stubborn, and just let me take your temperature,” she complained back at him, and crossed the space separating the two of them without further comment. She pressed her palm against his forehead before he could stop her. Her touch felt cool and comforting, and he fought the impulse to lean into it. “Christ, you’re burning up!”

“Am not,” he countered childishly, pulling away from her with a grimace. She was close enough that he could smell the perfume she was wearing: a light, feminine scent, something with vanilla and maybe a touch of florals. It was nice. “What are you, my mother?”

“No, but you apparently need someone to be, ‘cause you refuse to take care of yourself,” she snapped at him, turning away to kneel and open the cabinet under his sink. She began to dig around freely, as though it was the most natural thing in the world to barge into someone else’s house and start rifling through their belongings. “Don’t you have a thermometer in here somewhere?”

“Hey, get the fuck out of there!” Vegeta bitched, and leaned forward to pull her away by the arm but lost his balance and only managed to swipe blithely at the air. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Taking care of your stupid ass,” she bit back at him as she pulled a small box from the depths of the cabinet. She produced a plastic thermometer from it and studied it for a moment before pressing a button and holding it out to him. “Here. Stick this under your tongue. Don’t fucking argue! Just do it.”

He snapped his lips shut, choking back the complaint he’d had ready on his lips, and accepted the small device with a scowl before jamming it into his mouth and holding it under his tongue. A moment passed in silence before he stole another look at her, and found her unabashedly staring back at him. It took him a moment to realize her scrutiny was fixed on his knuckles, still scabbed over from his match on Monday afternoon. He frowned at the realization, suddenly feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious. Her brow furrowed, but the comment he had been expecting never came, and in an instant she’d disappeared under the sink again, reemerging only when the thermometer began beeping. She snatched it from his lips before he could look at it, and gasped dramatically.

“Vegeta, Jesus! One hundred and one point one!” she chastised, giving him a critical look as he rolled his eyes. She turned and grabbed something out from where the cabinet door still hung open. “Look, I found some acetaminophen here. I’m gonna give you two, and that should help bring down your fever. Let’s go get some water.”

She handed him a pill bottle, then rose and left the bathroom without another word, leaving Vegeta no choice but to resignedly stand and follow her. By the time he exited the bathroom, she was already digging through his cabinets, looking for a glass. “Do you ever cook in here?” she asked as he drew near to where she stood at the sink. “It’s so damn clean! Doesn’t look like you’ve ever even used it.”

He grunted at her, not wanting to concede an answer. She didn’t seem to notice, as she gazed around his little apartment nosily before shutting off the water and handing him a glass. He accepted it, watching her warily as he downed it with two capsules from the bottle she’d found, unsure of what she was going to do next. Part of the reason she unnerved him so much was her unpredictability; he thought himself pretty good at reading people, and yet he could never get a gauge on what was on her mind. This impromptu visit was a case in point example: she’d shown up unannounced, somehow forced her way in uninvited, and was now tearing through the place like a tornado, as though she herself lived here. Her forwardness was unsettling.

She turned her eyes back to him. “Have you eaten today?” she asked pointedly. He stared back silently, knowing she wouldn’t like his answer, and wondering if he should lie or not.

“No.”

She responded with a loud sigh and a roll of the eyes. “Go back to bed,” she ordered, pushing at his shoulder. “I’ll make you something to eat. Go on.”

“No!” Vegeta protested hotly. The idea of her babying him any more than what she was already attempting was too much for him to handle. He was a grown man, and certainly didn’t need her help to survive a virus. He brushed her hands away brusquely. “I’m not leaving you out here unsupervised. You could fucking poison me, and I’d never know!”

“Oh please, don’t be a jackass,” she complained, putting her hands on her hips. “I wouldn’t poison you! I just want to make sure you keep your strength up, so you get better. If I left now, I’d be worried.”

Vegeta again disregarded the oddly pleasant warmth that seemed to blossom in his stomach at her remark, and instead jeered at her. “Woman, please. I’m totally capable of - ”

“If you’re gonna be stubborn, fine, just stand there then, but I’m going to make you some food, and you’re going to eat it,” she interjected with a flippant wave of her hand, turning to tug open a cabinet at random. “You must be freezing, though, and I’m sure you’d be a lot more comfortable with some blankets in bed.”

He grumbled at her, but stayed put nonetheless, watching as she began rifling through the contents of his kitchen indiscriminately. He knew that he should protest more vocally, maybe grab her by the shoulders and physically force her from the apartment, but there was something calming about her whirlwind presence. He studied her in silence, watching as she climbed onto his countertop to reach the top shelf of the cabinet she had opened, and decided he would chalk this lack in judgement up to illness. “What the hell are you looking for?”

“Well, I was hoping you would have – oh, look! Here’s one,” she said triumphantly, and pulled out a cup soup from the cupboard. “This should be easy enough on your stomach, since it’s just some noodles and broth.”

Vegeta made no comment, but silently wondered where the hell those noodles had come from; they were far too high in sodium and carbohydrates for him to buy them of his own volition. They must have been a drunk convenience store splurge of Raditz’s, after a night out. His apartment was far closer to the edge of campus than Raditz and Nappa’s was, which meant he was unfortunately volunteered to occasionally house the drunken brutes overnight when they were too sloshed to make it all the way back to theirs from whatever frat house they were coming from.

The woman had already pulled a clean pot from the drying rack and set it to boil water for his instant meal on the stovetop. She hoisted herself back onto the counter, this time to sit and wait, and allowed her feet to swing back and forth childishly. She looked over at him, still standing by the sink in only his plaid boxers. “Vegeta, you should really be wearing more clothing, given your fever.”

“I’m fine like this. You’re the one who barged into my house. If you don’t like the way I’m dressed, there’s the door,” he grouched at her, refusing to give her the satisfaction of knowing that he was, indeed, freezing. He crossed his arms over his chest and sniffled in an attempt to breathe through his congested sinuses. “Why the hell are you here, anyway?”

“I already told you, you weren’t in Spanish, and - ”

 “No, I know that. I mean, why?” he asked her flatly, staring fixedly at her face in hopes of catching a genuine reaction. Another issue he had with her friendliness towards him was that he couldn’t fathom why someone like  _her_  would voluntarily go out of her way to spend time with someone like  _him_ , and frankly, it made him suspicious. Had someone put her up to it? Maybe a cruel joke of Raditz’s? Either way, he at least wanted to see if she would answer him honestly; he would know if she was lying. “Why do you care if something’s wrong with me, or if I’m in class or not?”

She shrugged casually, and gave him a small smile. “I don’t know, really,” she said, meeting his gaze with her own. “There’s just something about you, I guess, that interests me somehow. Plus, I think you’re a lot nicer than you let on. You’ve got this big, tough guy front going, but I know better than to believe that.”

Vegeta felt a flush explode onto his cheeks, and hoped he could pass it off as a side effect of his fever. He jerked his face away from her and harrumphed. “Tch. Whatever, woman. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, okay,” she dismissed, a smile still on her face as she hopped off the counter again to tend to his soup.

Even after he had forced down the prepackaged noodles, Vegeta couldn’t convince her to leave. She insisted on at least staying long enough to watch a movie, to give the acetaminophen time to lower his fever. She dragged him over to the couch, threw a blanket at him, and plopped unceremoniously down next to him to begin surfing through a streaming site in search of something to watch. She picked an old kung fu movie, and proceeded to talk her way through the entire plot, giving commentary wherever she deemed fit. Oddly, Vegeta found the sound of her voice comforting, the rising inflection of her charming laugh and the lower octave of her derisive comments relaxing him to the point of drowsiness, and he eventually succumbed to the bliss of feverish slumber.

When Vegeta finally awoke several hours later, it was dark outside, and he was alone again. The standing lamp in the corner of the room had been turned on, and he was hugging a pillow he could’ve sworn he hadn’t been holding prior to falling asleep. He looked around the living room blearily, and realized there was a piece of notebook paper on his coffee table. He snatched at it to bring it closer to his face, and saw it was a note.

_“Vegeta – sorry to leave before you woke up, but I didn’t want to disturb you. I took your temp again before heading out, and it was below a hundred, so I thought it would be safe to let you rest alone. Please make sure you drink lots of fluids and don’t skip anymore meals. Also, please put some ointment on your knuckles. If you need anything, please text me – I left my number below. Feel better – xoxo, Bulma”_

He blinked stupidly at the tidy handwriting, realizing she had indeed included her number at the bottom, and then scowled and crumbled the paper. Stupid woman. Like he needed her to tell him what to do. He wasn’t an idiot. If he’d needed her help, he would have asked her for it.

Still, he couldn’t help but notice that his body ached less, and the waves of queasiness he’d been combating all day seemed to have subsided. Was that because he’d eaten something and taken a fever reducer, or because the illness was finally passing on its own? He decided to go with the latter.

As he rolled off the couch and dragged himself back to his bedroom, Vegeta couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being backed into quicksand. Was there any escaping this woman? She seemed to pop up without warning, and when she was around he found himself acting out of character. For instance, when had he ever welcomed visitors? His space was  _his space_ , and aside from the intermittent (and vehemently contested) drop in from Raditz or Nappa, he couldn’t recall ever letting someone into his dorm.

Also, since when did he let his guard down enough to fall asleep in the presence of someone else? Even when he did indulge in the occasional hookup, he always made sure it happened somewhere other than home to allow himself the freedom of leaving directly afterwards. Something about sleeping around other people made him feel vulnerable – probably from years of military school, where cruel pranks amongst classmates had run rampant after the sergeant ordered lights out - and he was surprised he had been able to fall asleep at all, knowing she was there.

Worst of all, when had he ever let anyone fawn over him the way she did? He couldn’t recall any instance in which someone had taken his temperature for him, or made him something to eat, or really worried for his well-being at all. His own father had been distant during his upbringing, and he’d been passed around between nannies and other staff until he was old enough to care for himself. He was fiercely independent, and knew better than anyone that anything he wanted, he would have to work for on his own to achieve. Why, then, had it felt so nice to feel her palm on his forehead, to accept a blanket at her insistence that he get warm, to hear her say that she was worried about him?

Vegeta grumbled to himself as he laid down in his bed again and pulled his comforter over his face. Despite his best attempts at blocking her from his mind, he couldn’t help but allow his thoughts to wander back to the note she’d left, and the way she’d ended it.

 _xoxo, Bulma_.

 

*****

 

“Bulma, someone’s here for you.”

Bulma looked up from where she was reading a book on her bed. It was Sunday, and she had some last minute VCO reading to do before class the next day. Eighteen stood in her doorway, a small smile on her lips. “What?” she asked, wary of her friend’s grin.

“I said, someone’s here for you,” Eighteen repeated, her expression turning mischievous. “Short, dark hair, angry looking? He’s at the door for you.”

Bulma gawked back at her, unsure if she had heard correctly. “Wha – he’s  _here_?” she repeated, frowning slightly in confusion as she closed her textbook and stood from her bed. There was only one person she knew who fit that description, and he certainly wasn’t the type for random visits.

Eighteen rolled her eyes. “Are you deaf? Yes, Bulma, he’s at the door. Now go see what he wants before I die of curiosity,” she said, stepping to the side to let her through the doorway.

Still frowning, Bulma walked out of her room and down the hall to the living room, where the front door was ajar. She yanked it open.

Sure enough, there stood Vegeta. He was wearing a dark, V-neck sweater and a pair of jeans, whose pockets he had thrust his hands into as he waited, shoulders slumped forward irritably. He looked up as she opened the door.

“Well, hello,” she said, surprised. She opened her mouth to say something else before realizing Eighteen was listening in from the kitchen. She walked out onto the balcony where he stood, closing the door firmly behind her. “What’s going on?”

Vegeta scowled slightly at the question. “Nothing’s going on,” he said coarsely, dropping his gaze to his shoes. “I just came by to – uh, to say… thanks.”

Bulma gawked at him. Surely she was hallucinating, and this entire scene was a figment of her imagination. “Thanks? For what?”

He flashed her an annoyed look. “Tch. For what do you think?” he bit at her, and when she didn’t respond, he said, “For the other day. For coming by and everything. I would’ve been fine… I  _am_  fine. But just… yeah, thanks.”

Bulma scrutinized him. Despite his obvious discomfort with the current situation, he did look a lot better than he had four days prior: he was no longer clammy and gaunt, and the color had returned to his face – it was currently collecting around his cheeks. She smiled broadly at him, realizing he was being sincere. “You don’t have to thank me,” she said earnestly, leaning forward slightly. “That’s what friends are for. I’m just glad you’re feeling better.”

Vegeta shrugged, avoiding eye contact. “Yeah, well… just wanted to say it.” He was quiet for a moment, before turning to leave. “See you around, then.”

“Vegeta,” Bulma said suddenly, reaching out to place her hand on his arm to prevent him from leaving. “Wait. I was wondering, would you go out with me, sometime? Maybe for coffee, as friends?”

He stared at her like she had suddenly grown a second head. “You want to… get coffee?”

She nodded, determined not to blush. “Yeah, I do,” she said, careful to retain eye contact. “I feel like I’ve known you for a while now but… I don’t really  _know_  you. Does that make sense?”

Vegeta shrugged, lifting one of his hands to cup the back of his neck. “Why would you want to do that?”

Bulma laughed, letting her arm drop back to her side. “What, get to know you? Why wouldn’t I? I like talking to you. When you’re not being a jerk, I mean.”

His gaze shifted to meet her own, and she felt her heart begin to rabbit around against her rib cage. “Fine,” he said finally after a moment’s pause, and then turned to leave again. “See you tomorrow.”

“Okay!” Bulma agreed cheerfully, and waved after him as he stalked off down the balcony. “See you in class!”

She watched him disappear towards the elevators before opening the door to her apartment, smacking Eighteen square in the face as she did so.

“OW!”

“That’s what you get for eavesdropping,” Bulma chided as Eighteen rubbed at her forehead, the door closing behind her.

“I couldn’t even hear anything through the stupid door,” she complained, looking cross. “What happened? What did he want?”

“Nothing, just to say hi,” Bulma lied, unable to hide her smile as she started back towards her room. Something about Vegeta made her want to keep him from others, as though he were an incredible secret she had with herself. This might have been due to the fact that she wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t dreaming; had he really agreed to get coffee with her? To spend time with her, voluntarily, outside of class? Even if it was just as friends, it hardly seemed real, especially after the caustic reception she’d had at his apartment mere days earlier.

As she walked back into her room, she collapsed onto her bed and held her pillow to her chest, smiling stupidly. Oddly, the idea of even being friends with Vegeta felt like a great personal victory somehow. Surely by accepting her invitation, he was also agreeing to a tentative friendship – at least, she hoped so. Whatever the case, she was encouraged by his random visit – to, of all things, say thank you – and was hopeful it would be the first of many.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Take me, my heart and my soul  
> Pick me apart and look inside, inside  
> Fill me with dreams I can't hold  
> Keep me afloat in this cold world, cold world  
> Tell me it won't hurt  
> Now I, I'm your passenger  
> The old me, won't work  
> Now I, I'm your passenger."
> 
> Does anyone else feel a teensy bit bad for Yamcha? He's a pretty big idiot, but working through unreciprocated feelings is hard and he's not good at words. Or choices. Or relationships. [pat on the head]
> 
> I don't know about ya'll, but I am all for a cocky, self assured, forward AF Vegeta. He's one of those insufferable guys that knows he's hot, and totally uses it to his own advantage. NO SHAME  
> /foreshadowing
> 
> Thanks for your continued support. :)


	6. A Self-Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had more plans for this chapter, but the length was getting unruly so I chopped it in two. Next chapter will probably be a bit shorter in light of that.  
> Again, thanks to those of you that read, commented, and gave kudos on the last chapter! Always really appreciate your encouragement.

Vegeta had been hoping against all odds that she’d forgotten about his acquiescence to go out with her for coffee, but it was the first thing out of her mouth as she arrived to their Spanish class on Monday afternoon.

“Hi!” Bulma chirped cheerfully, dumping her things unrestrainedly on their shared table and plopping down next to him in her chair. Her hair was mussed up, as though she'd arrived in a hurry, and her cheeks were still pink from the cold. “I was going to text you this morning about our coffee plans, but remembered I never asked for your number! When do you want to go?”

Vegeta looked over at her balefully, trying not to wince at the onslaught of friendliness she’d just slapped him with. He had been playing over this possible scenario in his mind since he'd last seen her, mentally preparing exactly how he wanted to broach the issue with her when it inevitably came up, and yet still found himself at a loss for what to say. “Uh - ”

“See, I know you’re busy most evenings because of MA practice,” she chattered on without waiting for his input, “but I was thinking that if you don’t want to do mornings, we could meet up after you’re done at the arena. I could go to the lab until you’re ready, and if we head out of the far side exit of campus instead of the main exit, there’s a coffee place just a block away, and it’s super close to the science building so you could just swing by to meet me. What do you think?”

He waited this time to ensure she was really finished talking before bothering to reply. “It's no difference to me either way,” he said flatly. He had the distinct impression that should would somehow find a way around any excuse he could think of to give her; at the very worst, if it ended up being during an inconvenient time, he just wouldn’t show and pretend he’d forgotten.

If she at all detected his lack of enthusiasm, she didn’t let it show. “Tomorrow is good for me, if that’s okay with you,” she said, tucking a piece of short hair behind her ear, her eyes glued to his face. Although he could recognize and appreciate the effectiveness in using unwavering eye contact as an intimidation tactic and frequently implemented the technique himself, he found himself fidgeting under her gaze. In light of his silence, she added, “I have a lecture till noon, but then we could meet up.”

He grunted in response, turning to his textbook to escape the scrutiny of her eyes. He had a political theory lecture first thing on Tuesdays, but then usually spent the second half of the morning in the gym. As long as her plans didn’t interfere with that, he didn’t care. “Twelve thirty is fine.”

He could practically feel the heat radiating from the beaming smile she flashed at him. “Great. Meet me over by the science building, then, and we can walk over together. Oh, can I get your number, too, while I’m thinking about it?”

That request surprised him. He jerked his eyes back over to her, confused. “My number? Why?”

Bulma raised an eyebrow at him as she pulled her own textbook from her bag, looking as though she thought he might be joking. “In case I need to get in touch with you? In case something comes up and I have to cancel? Who knows, it could be any number of things,” she said with a casual shrug. “You already have mine, so just text me your name and I’ll know the number belongs to you.”

Vegeta huffed at her, unsure of whether or not he wanted to give her such an easy means of pestering him. If she was hard to avoid now, what would his life be like when she had twenty-four-hour access to him via phone calls or text messages? It was bad enough having to put up with Raditz all the time, he thought. “I don’t think so.”

She looked at him again, and her expression quickly changed from one of amusement to one of confusion when she saw the serious look on his own face. “Oh, Vegeta, come on,” she said in a placating tone, frowning a little. “We’re not twelve years old, for Christ’s sake. It’s not like I’m going to send you penis pictures or anything. I mean, unless you’re into that kind of thing.” She gave him another teasing grin.

He scoffed at her a second time, recognizing her attempt at riling him and refusing to rise to it. “I don’t care, I don’t just give out my number to – hey, what the fuck are you doing?”

She snatched his cell phone from where it had been laying on the table next to his book. “If you’re not going to give it to me, I’ll do it myself,” she said simply, fidgeting with the buttons on the side of the device.

Vegeta rolled his eyes, turning to rest his elbow on the back of his chair. He opened his hand, palm up, and wagged his fingers at her. “It’s locked, you dunce. Now give it back, or - ”

The rest of his sentence promptly died in his throat, as he realized she had somehow bypassed the fingerprint scanner and gotten into his call records. He watched as she punched a number into the phone, and a moment later her own cell began vibrating. Pleased with herself, she smiled before hanging up and sliding the phone back across the table at him as he stared at her, disbelieving.

Bulma giggled at his reaction. “Those phones have a glitch, where you can get around the lock screen protection by activating the camera, and getting into the photo gallery. That effectively opens it, and gives you access to the rest of it,” she explained, her nose wrinkling cutely as she grinned at him. He felt his own face crumple into a scowl.

“You sneaky bitch,” he grumbled, and promptly snatched up the phone and shoved it into his pocket. She snickered again as their professor finally waddled into the classroom and approached the front of the class.

“Don’t be a sore loser,” Bulma chided in a lowered voice, still fighting a smirk, as the woman at the front of the room began talking. 

He grunted moodily, but opted to say nothing more, not wanting to goad her teasing any more than he already had. He had learned quickly that she was quite good at identifying what his triggers were, both to anger and to discomfort him, and wasn’t keen on giving her any further excuses to practice honing those skills more than she already had.

The rest of the lecture passed by without incident, aside from a couple of teasing emoji texts Bulma sent to him about halfway through the class, which he promptly ignored. Spanish was easily the simplest class in his schedule, and barely required any attentiveness on his part to do well. As he was nearing the end of his tenure at SCU, he had been pressed by the registrar at the conclusion of the previous semester to choose a language course to comply with the schoolwide requirement, and he had picked Spanish without a second thought. During the multitude of years he had been forced to live abroad thanks to his father’s military status, Vegeta had been subject to any number of foreign languages throughout his childhood and early adolescence, and had grown quite comfortable using a handful of them conversationally. Spanish was one of them.

He didn’t advertise this, of course, for a few different reasons. First and foremost, he didn’t want to make himself a target for his moron classmates to flock to for help, or for his professor to use as an example, as he knew was customary when one person particularly excelled in a class otherwise filled with simpletons; and secondly, it somehow felt like an intensely personal thing to tell other people. He didn’t like sharing information about himself to begin with, and as this particular tidbit was hardly relevant to normal conversation he had found it easy enough to conceal. Had he found himself in need of using his language skills at some point during his day to day life, he very well might have taken advantage of them, but that opportunity had not yet presented itself, and so they remained a secret. The only people he could think of aside from his brother and father who knew that he was multilingual were Raditz and Nappa, and even that was only because they had overheard him trying to flirt with a French exchange student in her native language during his junior year of high school back in Central City. The follow-up ridicule had been unrelenting enough that he’d resolved then and there to never let it be known that he was conversational in at least three others.

“Vegeta?”

Vegeta snapped back from his reverie, having lost himself in unpleasant thoughts of a childhood he wished he could permanently erase from memory. He turned to look at Bulma, who had packed up her things and was standing next to him. The rest of the class had already emptied.

“Are you alright?” A faint trace of concern wrinkled her brow. Her apparent regard for him was still perplexing in his mind, and he hadn’t quite decided if she was just particularly empathetic with everyone, or had decided to look after him specifically for some bizarre reason. Either way, it was a misguided effort, as he knew with certainty he would never admit to her something was wrong, even if that were the case.

He nodded, snapping shut his textbook to stand. “Yeah. Fine,” he said curtly, glancing at her. She pursed her lips at him, plainly disbelieving, but to his relief she didn’t push the subject.

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow at twelve thirty, then?” she asked, leaning forward to stubbornly meet his gaze again. He relented and raised his eyes to lock with her own.

“Yes,  _woman_ , goddamn. Tomorrow, twelve thirty. Got it.” Despite his irritable tone, she smiled widely by way of response. He felt something pleasant settle over him, basking in her contentment in spite of himself, and he again wondered how he could possibly evoke such an amiable reaction from her. He was intentionally rude to her, constantly tested her limits, and yet more often than not she responded to his hostility with warmth. It contradicted everything he knew about normal human interaction, and was alarmingly beguiling.

He watched her leave, still rooted to the spot where he stood, and was hit with the sudden understanding that he might be in over his head.

 

*****

 

Vegeta had never had the misfortune of having to enter the science building, having completed all his science credits prior to transferring to SCU, but as the minutes ticked farther and farther past twelve thirty and Bulma still did not appear, he wondered if today would be the day he would have to venture in. He stared up at the edifice from where he stood outside the main entrance, and found it to be rather drab and unimpressive; it was several stories tall, but unremarkable in every other sense, with a plain, dingy brick façade, and small, square windows. He wondered how hard it would be to find Bulma if he were to decide to go seek her out.

Vegeta glanced at his phone again, confirming that no, she had not responded to his text, and that yes, yet another five minutes had slipped by. It was nearing one o’clock by this point, and his patience was waning.

He jammed the phone back into his pocket and crossed his arms over his chest. The notion of blowing the whole thing off and just leaving became more tempting with each passing minute. This stupid meet-up had been her idea, anyway. If she didn’t value it or respect his schedule enough to show up on time – which she obviously didn’t, given her tardiness - then he shouldn’t feel obligated to wait around for her like some pitiful lapdog. It was humiliating.

He tapped his fingers restlessly against his biceps, wondering how he would spend the rest of his day should he decide to bail on Bulma, before abruptly pushing off the wall he was leaning up against and turning towards the main door. His hand hovered by his side for another tick as he mulled over his options one last time, before he reached up and grabbed the door handle. If he was going to bail on her, he had least wanted to see the guilt on her face when he told her it was her own fault for making him wait so goddamn long. He let himself into the warm hall within before he could second guess himself.

Finding the engineering wing was rather simple – there were large signs all over the place, pointing to the biology portion of the building one way, and geology another, ect cetera – but upon arriving, he found it still to be too large to easily find where Bulma might be. The doors lining the multiple halls were clearly labelled, with some being lecture halls, some being labs, and other being “focus rooms”, which appeared to be smaller, study dedicated spaces for individuals or small groups.

Vegeta wandered slowly down the corridor, glancing into open doors and through glass panes as he passed, feeling stupider with each passing room. What was he doing, other than wasting his time? His decision to come looking for her had been pathetic in and of itself, even if it had been to chew her out, but peering into classrooms like a lost puppy? He had reached a new low.

He was on the verge of turning around and just leaving the whole situation behind when there was a muffled noise from the end of the hall, followed by the bang of a door swinging open and ricocheting off the outside hallway wall. With the door open, the voices from within carried easily.

“Bulma, wait! We’re not done yet! You can’t just leave in the middle of it!”

“I always do most of the work for these goddamn projects, so you guys can pitch in and cover for me for once! I have to go meet someone, and I just realized I’m really late - I’ve really gotta go -”

Vegeta straightened, recognizing the demanding voice emanating from the open door. She emerged a moment later, hollering her goodbyes over her shoulder and lugging a backpack and two or three other totes laden with books. Her short, azure hair was askew and a white lab coat was still donning her shoulders. He had to admit to himself that she looked rather professional and oddly attractive, albeit rather disorganized, as she scrambled from the room out into the corridor. He watched her toddle down the hall towards him, her attention focused on the phone she was struggling to hold given the weight from all her bags, before he cleared his throat loudly as she neared where he stood. The door she had exited from still stood open, and he found cruel satisfaction in the idea that her classmates would hear her get stood up.

She glanced up at him briefly, and did an instant double-take. “Vegeta!” she said, clearly startled to see him. Her wonder, though, quickly melted into an expression of guilt as she processed the stony expression on his face. “Oh, I’m so sorry I made you wait! I got caught up in a group project with a bunch of idiots, and totally lost track of time – I’m really sorry – oh,  _jeez_  - ”

One of her bags had fallen off her shoulder abruptly, the contents loudly toppling to the floor. Bulma stamped her food on the ground in frustration and groaned, and the irritation Vegeta had felt up until that moment faltered as he smirked at her predicament despite himself. Bulma ran a hand through her hair, staring down at the mess.

“God, I’ve just had the worst day,” she complained, her expression crumbling into one of exasperation. “My lecture was  _awful_ , and then I had this goddamn group project to work on – I’ve really been looking forward to getting coffee with you, too, I have no idea how I didn’t realize how late I was - ”

He felt his gut constrict at her words. Seeing her peeved at the hands of something other than his own teasing or ridicule triggered something weird inside of him, and he somehow found himself wanting to help her, his vexation from two minutes ago notwithstanding.

“Gimme that,” he ordered gruffly, tugging at the book bag she had on. She looked at him, again surprised, before quickly relenting. He swung the heavy bag over his own shoulder as she knelt down to quickly gather her fallen things.

“We don’t have to lug all this stuff with us. One of my professors has his office up this way, and he always leaves it open – we can just leave it all there for now,” she said, standing again. He nodded, pushing away the nagging voice at the back of his head that mocked his readiness to overlook her making him wait over thirty minutes, and followed her.

They fell into an easy stride next to each other, Bulma blabbering away about the project she had been working on and the hopeless group of classmates she was stuck working with. Vegeta only half listened, choosing instead to watch her idly as they stowed her bags and lab coat away in the office space, left the science building, and meandered across campus to the far side exit that would release them into the surrounding community. Even though he wasn’t fixed on the content of her palaver, and offered no commentary, her expressive face was enough to hold his attention. He studied the look of intensity that marked her features as she talked about her projects, her current studies, how passionate she felt about it. He wondered if it was comparable to how he felt about physical fitness and martial arts, the drive he felt to consistently get better and to be better than any of his competitors, and mused that they might not be as different as he had originally thought.

The coffee shop itself was a small, crammed space with a large industrial looking machine in the corner. There were a number of spindly, mismatched wooden tables and chairs scattered around the small amount of open space available, with a handful of students dispersed among them, huddled behind laptops. He followed Bulma to the small line of people queuing up to order, and appreciated, as he looked up at the menu, that he didn’t have a damn clue what any of the options were.

“The chai here is really good,” Bulma said from his right side, misinterpreting his lost expression for one of indecision. He glanced at her, wondering what the hell ‘chai’ was.

“Uh, what if I just want a black coffee?” he asked, refusing to meet her eyes as embarrassment began to flood his senses. Why hadn’t he looked into this bullshit before leaving to meet her? At least he could have pretended he knew what he liked.

“Oh, you mean like an Americano? You can get that, too, obviously. They even roast their own beans here – that’s what that machine in the corner is for.” There was a brief silence, before Bulma added, “Vegeta, you  _do_  drink coffee, right?”

There was a moment’s hesitation. “I mean, yeah, like the instant stuff you can get at the store, I have,” he said, hoping this would placate her, as it was about as close as he got to ever drinking what could be considered coffee. Instead of the nod of agreement he’d been hoping for, she laughed.

“Vegeta, that doesn’t count!” She slapped the palm of her hand to her forehead as they edged closed to the register. “If you didn’t like coffee, why the hell did you agree to a coffee date? We could’ve done something else!”

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug, feeling a self-conscious blush creeping up his neck. Whether it was because he felt atypically stupid or because she had referred to their little outing as a date, he couldn’t be sure. “I’ll just get a black coffee.”

They ordered and gathered their drinks before Bulma led him to the back of the room, to a small, round table next to a window. Vegeta sat down next to her, feeling horribly out of place as he looked around the rest of the shop: aside from the fact that his bulky frame could barely fit onto the spindle-legged chair Bulma offered him, he was sure the other patrons were judging him, staring at the sweatpants, hoodie, and training sneakers he hadn’t bothered to change out of before leaving the gym an hour earlier. He took a swig from the steaming, bitter drink he’d stupidly spent money on, and peeked over at Bulma, who seemed to him much more appropriately dressed in a casual V-neck tee shirt and jeans.

“How is it? Taste okay?” she asked, watching him try his drink. She pushed her own cup over towards him without waiting for an answer to her question. “Here, try mine. It’s a cinnamon latte.”

Vegeta glared at the mug, not sure if he wanted to indulge her, but somehow found himself relenting under her characteristic assiduous stare. He sipped at the beverage before making a face and pushing it back to her. “Fuck, ugh! How do you drink something that sweet? Feels like it could rot my teeth out.”

Bulma laughed, accepting the mug back from him. “Not a fan of sweets, then. Got it,” she said good naturedly, smiling into her cup. “So if you don’t drink coffee, then what’s your morning drink of choice? Tea?”

Vegeta scoffed, shaking his head. “Protein,” he said categorically, knowing that wasn’t the answer she had been looking for. Sure enough, she questioningly quirked an eyebrow at him. He elaborated. “I have a protein shake every morning before my workout. Other than that, it’s just a lot of water, really.”

“Oof. But whatever floats your boat, I guess,” Bulma said with a slight shrug, and Vegeta didn’t miss the once over she gave him with her eyes. “I mean, it’s obviously worked out for you.”

He couldn’t help but simper a little at that, and brought the mug in his hand to his mouth to dissimulate.

“So, what do you do in your free time, other than work out and train?” she continued, tracing the rim of her cup absently with her index finger. He noticed that she was wearing nail polish, a dark gray color, and wondered if she always had and he’d just never realized it. It looked nice, paired with the dark red top she was wearing.

“Uh – that’s most of my schedule, really,” he admitted lamely, suddenly feeling supremely uninteresting. He had never really thought about it too much, but there wasn’t a lot of variety in his free time hobbies. He sat up straighter, hoping his uncertainty wasn’t as obvious as it felt. “Just class, martial arts, or the gym.” He paused briefly before adding, “Sometimes I have frat shit to do. Parties and community event bullshit.”

“Is that where you met your friends? The ones that live downstairs from me?”

Vegeta couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the mention of Raditz and Nappa, whom he could never seem to escape. “No,” he said, pulling his arm up to rest it on the back of his chair. “We went to high school together. We are also frat brothers, though.”

“Oh! You’ve known them longer than I thought,” she said, crossing her legs at the knee and leaning back in her own chair. “The bald one seems okay. The hairy one is kind of arrogant, though. And aggressively flirty.”

Vegeta’s hand tightened around his mug. “Flirty?”

Bulma nodded, oblivious to his sudden annoyance. “Yeah. When I went over to look for you that day you were sick, he kept trying to convince me to stay, and now whenever I see him around the quad he tries to talk to me. Really can’t take a hint, that guy. Seems kind of like an idiot.”

“He is,” he agreed, making a mental note to sock Raditz in the face when he next saw him. Even if he wasn’t sure what was going on between him and Bulma – which was  _nothing_ , he reminded himself, there was  _nothing_  between them - Raditz should know better than to come within ten feet of any girls Vegeta could even possibly be remotely interested in.  _Moron_.

“So, why are you friends with him, then?” she asked, chuckling at his response. “You guys really don’t seem anything alike, either.”

Vegeta had asked himself this same question a million times, and still could not come up with a satisfactory response. He and Raditz had been bunkmates for the last two years of high school, after Vegeta’s previous companion had graduated. While he had made very little attempt at friendship, Raditz had been ignorant to his disinterest. Soon Vegeta had found it impossible to escape him, and their relationship had really just morphed into what was little more than his tolerance of Raditz’s presence after a while. Habit, if nothing else. Nappa was different – if left unprovoked, Nappa was generally inoffensive and quiet, despite his hulking size, which only ever really became a problem when he was drinking. Nonetheless, he usually listened to Vegeta and was not hard to control. They had gravitated towards each other naturally as teenagers, both of them quiet and sullen and uninterested in the other meat headed military recruits they were constantly forced into contact with. Their friendship didn’t consist of much more than both of them sitting in the same space silently, perhaps one offering the other a beer or a snide comment here or there. Nappa was a good gym partner, too, given his enormous bulk and corresponding strength.

Raditz, on the other hand, was too dense to know when he was overstepping boundaries or stepping on toes, and only ever realized he was in trouble when it was too late. He was also an incorrigible slob, which Vegeta loathed, and had a terrible habit of bringing around brainless women who, like fleas to a dog, tried to latch onto any penis within a twenty-foot radius. Yes, there was a time and a place for those kinds of girls – namely at three in the morning on a Saturday when he was twelve drinks in and too inebriated to try to find a girl it would take effort to bag - but bringing them home was never the correct course of action, and despite consistent reminders Raditz had still not learned that lesson.

So, why were they friends, then? He didn’t know, honestly. “I’ve just gotten used to him being around, I guess,” he said, surprising himself with his candidness.

Bulma nodded as though she understood. “Goku and I are like that,” she said. “He’s an idiot, but we’ve been friends for years, since we were little kids. It would just be weird if we weren’t. I think I put up with a lot more from him than I would from anyone else.”

Vegeta couldn’t help but scowl at the mention of his messy haired teammate. “That buffoon?” he said scathingly, his lip curling slightly. “I wouldn’t openly admit to a friendship with that clown.”

To his surprise, Bulma laughed at his vehemence. “Hey now, be nice,” she chided gently, wrapping her hands around her mug for warmth. “He’s a buffoon, but he’s  _my_  buffoon. Almost like a brother, really. And besides, at least Goku is good at  _some_  things. Raditz is just dumb, from what I can tell.”

He couldn’t argue with that. Raditz was good at things, but they were all questionably useless things: drinking in large quantities, acquiring large numbers of sexual partners in short periods of time (or at once), milking favors from those dumb enough to fall for his stupid charm, ect cetera. Kakarot, on the other hand, was frustratingly good at things Vegeta was supposed to be unrivaled in. How that had happened, he was still trying to puzzle out.

The rest of the afternoon passed by surprisingly quickly. Bulma domineered the conversation, which he rather appreciated, and although she seemed unbothered by his minimal input he could tell that she also enjoyed hearing his commentary when he was willing to offer it, and gave him her undivided attention. He realized somewhere along the way that it was becoming increasingly easier to talk to her as time passed, to add small inquiries of his own for her to answer, to occasionally laugh at her stupid comments and not feel like he was opening himself up for mockery. By the time their drinks were finished – Vegeta’s having been emptied without his awareness, his focus elsewhere – the sun was falling low in the sky, and the temperature had dropped several degrees.

They walked back to campus, and despite Vegeta’s willingness to go back to the science building to get Bulma’s things, she had insisted they were fine where they’d left them, and instead asked if he would walk her back to her dorm.

Students milled about the common areas, bundled up in jackets and scarves as they flitted between buildings. Although he was only wearing a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, Vegeta had a predisposition for being too warm, and wasn’t bothered by the cold. He noticed that Bulma, though, rubbed at her bare arms and shivered as they trekked across campus.

“Are you cold?” he asked, feeling stupid as the question fell out of his mouth. Of course she was cold; why else would she be trembling? She was so small it was a wonder she didn’t blow away with the wind.

“Oh, I’m fine,” she said, shaking her head and flashing him an assuring smile. “We’re only a couple minutes from my building.”

An unusual idea came to mind, which his mouth voiced before he could think it through entirely. “Do you want my sweater?”

“Oh, no, that’s okay! I don’t want you to be cold because of me - ”

“Here,” he said, ignoring her protests and pulling his sweatshirt off by the back of his neck to expose the spandex tee shirt he was wearing underneath. He tossed the sweater at her, making sure to smack her in the face with it so as to not be  _too_  nice. “It might, uh, smell like me, but it’ll be warm at least.”

She pulled the hoodie from her face and pursed her lips at his obstinacy, but accepted the rare gesture of kindness without further complaint and pulled it over her head. It was laughably large on her – the sleeves pooled around her wrists, and the waist fell down to her thighs – but he noticed that her shivering stopped after that.

It wasn’t till much later, after they had parted ways and he was back in his dorm, that he realized what an unprecedented offering that had been coming from him. He was usually very territorial with his belongings – he had once refused to lend Raditz a shirt after he’d ripped his own while roughhousing with Nappa, and instead sent him home topless in February – but at the time, offering up his sweatshirt to Bulma had seemed like a very natural thing to do. If she had a need that he could painlessly meet, what sense did it have not to do it? He had almost felt good about being able to do something nice for her. He’d even agreed when she’d asked to hold onto it, so she could wash it for him and return it in class on Thursday.

The longer he thought about it, sprawled across his couch in a pair of flannel pajama bottoms with the television on but wholly ignored, the more Vegeta realized that he was very decidedly not himself when he was around Bulma. There was something unspoken about her, something very present but hard to put his finger on, that niggled its way under his skin and turned him into someone else. Agreeing to go out with her to begin with had been out of character, but he had chalked that lapse in judgement up to owing her a favor after she’d help tend to his illness; however, spending several hours with her and – dare he say it –  _enjoying_  it? What excuse did he have for that? Or for relishing the way her eyes creased when she smiled at him, or for telling her stupid details about his life he would usually cling to? How could he explain away the way his pulse had accelerated when she had squeezed his forearm as she said goodbye? Or how he had felt stupidly tempted to lean down and meet her lips with his own, before his sanity had thankfully yanked on the reins and steered him away?

It was disarming to look back on the afternoon and realize he couldn’t recall a single occasion in which he’d enjoyed himself as much as he had sitting in that cramped coffee shop, listening to her talk about her friends and her classes and her home in West City. Did he give a rat’s ass about her friends or her classes or West City? Objectively, no, not in the least. When the information was coming from her, though, when  _she_  was the one talking about it, it suddenly seemed worth listening to.

What the fuck was happening to him?

He sat up on the couch and held his head in his hands, suddenly feeling panic rumbling through his veins. He needed to get a grip. He had a single semester left before graduation, and then he would be shipping out to basic training. Letting Bulma think they could be friends – or anything more than that – was pointless, as there would be no future to that relationship, friendly or otherwise. After graduating he would effectively drop off the face of the planet to dive into his military career, and he certainly didn’t plan on coming back to the South City area; he knew from a lifetime of constant moving and changing schools that stability was not what he had signed up for when he’d agreed to a life of military commitment.

The best thing to do would be to nip this situation in the ass, and kill it all at once, just like he had originally intended. Being nasty to her had not worked, so maybe if he was honest with her and explained what was going on, she would be more receptive. What would he say, though?  _Listen, you’re the first person whose company I can ever recall enjoying, and I also think you're pretty attractive, but I’ve already stupidly signed my life away to a government who doesn’t care if I live or die, and I would really prefer to go back to my life of regimented solitude in anticipation of that_. Oh, yeah, that sounded convincing.

Even if he was able to clean up that narrative a bit, though, he was still left with the root of the issue, which he was most unwilling to acknowledge: what did  _he_  want? Did he have any expectations from this accidental, dogged “friendship”? When he was being truly honest with himself, there were a few glaring facts he could not ignore, and would need to think over if he was going to face this whole mess head on.

First, he liked spending time with her. He had to accept it. She was smart and sarcastic and constantly challenged him. He yelled at her, and instead of cowering away like most, she got in his face and yelled right back. She was possibly the only person he knew who was both as stubborn and as driven as he was, and her ability to constantly throw him for a loop was both exciting and unnerving. Even her ability to piss him off was weirdly gratifying, if only because she did it so well. He admired her drive to always be the best, and the fact that even when she was presented with something she wasn't naturally good at, she persevered regardless; it was a trait he saw in himself, as well, and it endeared him to her more.

Second, he was physically attracted to her. There was no longer a point in denying that some deep, carnal part of him desired her, as much as he tried to ignore it. Many a time now he had found himself staring at her while she was talking and realized he had no idea what she was saying, and while part of him wanted to attribute that to simply being disinterested in what she had to say, he knew that wasn’t true. The reality was that he would get lost in her, in the cute manifestations of her contentment, in the large expressive eyes she constantly had trained on him, in the soft curves of her body as she angled down to tie her shoe or stretched her arms over her head. He was constantly torn between wanting to protect her, given her petit frame and delicate features, and wanting to  _ruin_  her, to bend her over the nearest piece of furniture until she was reduced to nothing but a sweaty, quivering mess. 

The issue was that sex would ultimately complicate things much more than what they already were. He physically  _wanted_  her, yes, but was he willing to deal with the eventual backlash? It seemed very unlikely that she would be able to accept sex as only casual enjoyment. She would probably get attached, as he had found women tended to do, and then leaving in May would be that much messier; he certainly wasn’t up for any kind of emotional attachments of his own, so a full-fledged relationship was not in the cards. He scowled at the mere thought.

His phone vibrated suddenly, buzzing loudly from his coffee table, and ripped Vegeta from the muddled train of thought he had lost himself in. He glared over at it for a moment, wondering if it was Raditz wanting something, before he reached over to pick it up. His stomach fluttered theatrically as he saw it was a message not from Raditz, but from Bulma.

_Had fun with you today. [smiley face] [coffee mug]_

His heart pounded dully in his ears as he stared down at what he was sure she had intended to be an inoffensive text. How was he supposed to respond to that? Should he respond at all? The idea of her sitting in her apartment waiting for a response he knew would never come somehow made him feel guilty, but the prospect of having to send a reply to her message induced panic in his chest. He was not good at these friendly social exchanges. What would be appropriate? A thumbs up seemed too curt, but a smiley face seemed insincere. Was he overanalyzing? Why was this so goddamn hard?

Vegeta stared at the screen for another moment, mulling over what to do, then promptly typed a short answer and sent it to her before he could chicken out.

_Me, too._

He exhaled, tossing his phone back onto the table and leaning back against the couch, his hands over his face. Something in his subconscious jabbed at him annoyingly, reminding him that if he really didn’t give a shit what she thought like he kept trying to tell himself, he wouldn’t be so nervous about replying in the first place.

Well,  _fuck_.

 

*****

 

Bulma quickly found that interacting with Vegeta was a science, and could be boiled down to a set number of rules.

First and foremost, he did not like being made to look what he could construe as stupid. Despite being arguably the most important rule, she still made sure to break it from time to time, lest he forget his place in their dynamic. She knew he liked to think he had the upper hand, so it was important to remind him occasionally that he, in fact, did not walk on water, and was just as human as she was. Getting to see the angry look on his face when she prodded his temper was just an added bonus.

Secondly, emotions other than anger generally made him uncomfortable. This particular facet of his personality made her wonder if he didn’t have a history with some kind of typical masculine indifference to feelings, perhaps a role model that had taught him from a young age all the horrible male stereotypes that she so vehemently disagreed with: men don’t cry, men have to be strong, men are the breadwinners in a relationship, ect cetera. Vegeta seemed truly confused in the face of warmth and friendliness, and while it truly concerned part of her, it also interested her scientific side to know more about what kind of interactions he’d had up until that point that caused such wonder and suspicion in the face of a kind smile or sincere compliment. Until she was further able to learn the root of this behavior, though, she had vowed to herself to try not to overwhelm him, even if it went against how she would normally treat her friends.

Thirdly, he was not a talker. She had accepted early on that she would have to instigate and carry most of their conversations; that is, unless they were arguing, in which case he had plenty to add. Luckily, friendly banter came to her rather naturally and although he didn’t have a ton to say in response to her constant chattering, at the very least Vegeta didn’t seem to mind her running commentary. It also made the infrequent instance in which he would add a thought or two of his own special somehow, and always made whatever she was saying seem more valued in retrospect, if only because he deemed it worthy of his own, usually private, opinion.

In the handful of days since they had gone to get coffee, Bulma had slowly began feeling out the boundaries of their slowly blooming friendship, and had quickly decided that the only way to get to understand him better would be to simply be herself, albeit a tad more respectful of privacy than she would have been with anyone else, and then do damage control as needed per the aforementioned rules. If a particular topic of conversation made him visibly uneasy, she made a mental note to sideline it until he got more comfortable around her. If he didn’t immediately answer a text she sent him, she did her best to patiently wait it out instead of bombarding him with five more. Instead of hooking arms with him or grabbing his hand as she would with Goku, she contented herself with walking at his side, a healthy space between the two of them.

What she was happy to notice, though, was that he was definitely more receptive of seeing her outside of class than she had previously expected. Following their coffee trip, she had experimented with a follow-up text to see if he would answer or read it at all, and to her immense surprise he had, about ten minutes after her initial send out. It had been an abrupt, curt answer, yes, but an answer nonetheless, and at this point Bulma was happy to take whatever crumbs she could get. It felt like coaxing a scared cat out from its hiding place under the bed, trying to make it understand that she was there to help and not to hurt, and while she understood it would take time to achieve his trust, she still celebrated every inch she managed to gain in headway.

After that, she had made a point of texting him at least twice a day. Sometimes his responses took longer, and some were painfully blunt, but nonetheless he responded, which told her he was at least somewhat receptive to her probing attempts at gaining some sort of relaxed back and forth between the two of them. She had seen him walking back from the gym on Wednesday evening, and instead of pretending like she hadn’t seen him, she had joined him in the journey back to her dorm building, where he had said his friends were meeting him. On Thursday during their class she had reluctantly returned the hoodie he had loaned her, clean and folded, and although he scoffed at the smiley face note she’d stuck to the front of it, she noticed he didn’t crumple it up and throw it out like she’d expected. When she got back to her apartment afterwards, she found a thank you text from him in her phone’s inbox, and had been forced to evade Eighteen’s prodding questions about the stupid smile on her face.

Friday, though, had brought about the real surprise. She was in her normal morning mechatronics class, drawing up a particularly complex diagram their professor was dissecting on the whiteboard at the front of the class, when her phone buzzed from her bag. This in and of itself was not unusual; between Eighteen and Chi Chi, she might have received anywhere between five and fifty texts a day, depending on how well they were currently getting along with their respective men. She ignored the initial message, too wrapped up in the explanation of elevator sensor systems to bother checking.

By the time the class ended, though, and she was packing up her notebook, her phone buzzed a second time, and she was reminded of the notification she had ignored half an hour earlier. She stuffed her textbook in her bag before opening the side pocket of her knapsack and pulling out her cell phone. Instead of a message from “bestie <3” or “roomie!” – Chi Chi and Eighteen, respectively – as she’d expected, she was surprised to see two texts from “tough guy [bicep]”. He had yet to reach out to her of his own accord, making this an unprecedented gesture on his part. She unlocked her screen, eager to see what he wanted.

The first message, sent thirty-two minutes previously, said  _Plans tomorrow? Movie?_  And the second:  _Never mind._

Bulma squinted at her phone, unsure she was reading that correctly. She double and triple checked to make sure it was indeed Vegeta who had texted her, before slumping back in her chair, her heard thudding around in her chest forcefully. She recognized, looking down at the phone, that her inability to respond immediately to his invitation had probably made him think she was disinterested and prompted the second text. She pondered a response for a moment before picking up her phone and calling him instead.

The line rang so many times she was sure it would go to voice mail, before he finally picked up, his voice low and gruff. “What?”

“Vegeta, I’ll watch a movie with you! Why did you change your mind?” she blurted before she could properly think of the best way to broach the topic. “I was in class or I would have answered sooner. Do you still want to?”

There was a long pause on the other end, during which she thought she heard mumbled talking in the background. Finally, he said, “I can’t tomorrow. Forgot I had plans already.”

“Oh. Well, what about later tonight? I mean, if you  _want_  to hang out with me, I mean,” she clarified, unperturbed by this new revelation. “I could come over to your place if that's better for you.”

Again there was a long pause. She waited, doing her best to be patient, wondering what kind of panic her offer had wrecked on his introverted psyche, and how it was manifesting on the other end of the line. “I can’t till after eight,” finally came his brusque reply.

She smiled at his terseness, a trait she was quickly learning to associate with his discomfort. She’d found that, when feeling uncomfortable, he was more likely to get angry than bashful. “I’ll see you at eight thirty, then,” she said, and hung up before he could broker any kind of protest. 

Bulma had half expected Vegeta to text her back afterwards, cancelling their sudden plans, but as the rest of the afternoon and early evening melted away she was happy to confirm a complete radio silence from his end. At around seven she jumped in the shower, and afterwards spent the better part of an hour trying to decide what she wanted to wear. She felt embarrassingly childish digging through her simple closet, trying to imagine what kind of impression she would be giving with each of the garments she tossed over her shoulder, and did her best to ignore the niggling reminder in the back of her head that she had no reason to fret so fervently over something as inconsequential as her clothing choices.

“What about this?” Bulma asked as she walked back into Eighteen’s bedroom for what must have been the twentieth time that evening. Eighteen turned to look at her, an appraising look on her face, before she wrinkled her nose and shook her head.

“Eh, nah. That color doesn’t do you any favors,” she dismissed, turning back to the thick textbook she had been flipping through. Krillin nodded in agreement from where he lay, sprawled across Eighteen’s bed.

“Yeah, pink makes you look even paler than you already are,” he added, glancing at her from over the top of his phone.

Bulma stomped her foot in annoyance. Being criticized was not something she was prone to tolerate with much grace, and as this was the umpteenth disapproved outfit, she was losing her patience. “Well, help me pick something better, then, instead of just rejecting all my ideas!” she complained hotly, her hands on her hips. Her tone gained a petulant, whiney edge when there was no immediate answer from either of them. “Eighteen, come on!”

Eighteen let her head roll back onto her shoulders and groaned loudly, an exaggerated protest that didn’t match the teasing smile she had on her face as she turned around again to face her friend. “God, Bulma, just wear some jeans and a t-shirt. He’s not going to care what you’re wearing, I promise.”

"Hey, speaking of outfits, don't forget that we have the Halloween party to go to tomorrow," Krillin said, propping himself on an elbow to look at the two of them. "You have to come in costume, or they won't let you in. You do both have costumes, right?"

"Fuck, that's tomorrow?" Bulma blanched, letting her hands fall to her side in exasperation. Eighteen had asked her weeks prior if she would go to the martial arts team get-together with her; they had to buy tickets to get in, but the proceeds would go towards travel costs of a tournament out of town that the team hoped to attend after winter break. She had relented, both in the face of Eighteen's wrath but also because she wanted to help out her friends; however, she had been sure she had at least another week before she would have to slap together a costume to wear. "Och, no, I don't. I guess I know what I'm doing tomorrow morning."

Eighteen made an indignant noise from her chair. "You better not bail on me, Bulma. If I have to go to this ridiculous fundraiser, so do you."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," she said, swatting Eighteen's complaints away with an impatient wave of her hand. "Can I at least get through tonight first, please?"

“Who are you going out with tonight, anyway?” Krillin asked, eyes rolling back down to his phone again as he scrolled idly and fell back against the pillows piled at the head of Eighteen's bed. “I didn’t even know you were seeing anyone.”

“I’m not,” Bulma squeaked, looking at him almost guiltily. Even if she had wanted to admit that she was interested in dating Vegeta, it seemed a little too soon after her recent drama with Yamcha to do so in good conscience. It also didn’t help that Vegeta had punched Krillin in the face just a handful of months previous. “We’re just friends. It’s someone from my Spanish class.”

“If you’re ‘just friends’, why do you care what you wear to go watch a stupid movie?” Eighteen’s eyebrows met her hairline in an accusatory expression that irritated Bulma. “Besides, short-dark-and-grumpy  _did_  come over here the other day. You sure nothing’s going on there?”

Bulma flushed, and snapped her arms across her chest in response. The tide of the conversation was very quickly turning against her. At this point the only reasonable answer seemed to escape before she found herself forced to face some uncomfortable truths. “You guys are  _no_  help,” she moaned, before spinning on her heel and plodding back to her own bedroom to change.

Back in the safety of her own room, she pulled the pink top she was wearing over her head and tossed it unceremoniously into the ever growing pile of rejected clothing in the corner of her room.

“Bulma, just wear something casual. A hoodie and some jeans, or leggings. If you try too hard, you might scare him off.”

Eighteen had followed her and was leaning against the doorframe. Bulma contemplated this idea. Maybe Eighteen was right. If she showed up to Vegeta’s dorm in a dress and heels, she would definitely be sending the wrong message. She exhaled, surveying her closet again. “How about this, then?” she asked, holding up a mustard color knitted sweater. It was intentionally overly large, and thus comfortable, and she could pair it with a pair of opaque black tights and some boots. “Casual enough?”

Eighteen nodded in approval. “Much better.”

Despite having chosen her outfit, it still took Bulma much longer than necessary to actually get dressed and get out the door to head over to Vegeta's dorm in the Jefferson building. By the time she finally gave up and just tied a bandana over her hair – it hadn’t wanted to cooperate with any other feasible styling, and was still too short to tie up – grabbed her keys, and ran out the door, it was already eight forty, and would take her at least fifteen minutes to power walk across campus.

She entered the cool, clean lobby of Vegeta's building at two after nine in the evening, right as a gaggle of laughing girls were walking into the elevator across from the main entrance. She jogged across the marble floors to squeeze in after them, thankful she had been able to time her arrival with that of someone else given that she did not have a card key to gain access to the upper floors.

The elevator glided smoothly up to the fourth floor, its doors opening to give her access to the hallways within, and she began the journey down the hallway to where she remembered his apartment being. She realized, as she approached number 425, that the tension she felt in her lower abdomen were nervous butterflies, and had trouble reconciling the sensation with the general calm she usually felt when presented with these kinds of social situations. Bulma was an extrovert, no doubt, and after years of going to Capsule Corp parties and events where she was forced to talk to people she had nothing in common with, she had polished her polite conversation skills to the point where she couldn't fathom a situation in which she would possibly feel intimidated or nervous. Whatever the case, she was always confident she would be able to talk her way through it smoothly and come out on the other end, both ego and reputation intact. Even when she had been trying to court Yamcha in high school, at the time the epitome of all things popular and athletic, she had found conversation and flirtation came very easily. Why, then, did her hand tremble slightly as she reached up to knock on Vegeta's door, forcing her to exhale steadily to regain her composure?

She waited outside his door for several moments, fiddling idly with the edge of her sweater and wondering if maybe he had gotten sick of waiting for her and gone out to avoid the awkward confrontation of telling her he wasn't interested in hanging out with her again. He didn't seem like the type to cowardly avoid her, and had certainly proved already that he wasn't afraid of getting into an argument with her, but all the same her mind thumbed through every possible negative outcome as the seconds slipped by.

To her relief, the doorknob turned and the door swung open after what must have been no longer than two minutes, but which felt like fifty. Vegeta stood before her, dressed plainly in a pair of solid black track pants and a white t-shirt, one of his hands in his pocket and the other resting against the doorframe. Instead of moving aside to let her in, though, he leaned his shoulder up against the edge of the door, effectively blocking her passage into the apartment within. She looked at him, and found a signature scowl plastered across his face.

"You're late," he said flatly, his lips creasing moodily on one side of his mouth. 

Bulma grinned guiltily, hoping some semblance of apology was translated into her expression. "I got into the shower late. Practically ran here, though, to make up for it," she said, lacing her fingers together absently. "I should have texted, though. Sorry. Can I still come in?"

He surveyed her for a moment, looking as though he would really like to deny her and just send her home, before he turned without further comment and walked back into his dorm. Bulma took his leaving the door open as the best invitation to enter that she was going to get, and followed.

Much as she had been the first time she visited (or forcefully entered, rather) his dorm, she was struck primarily by how clean it was. Had it not been for the fact that she knew without a doubt that he did live there, she might have thought the place uninhabited. The small, modern kitchen to the left of the entrance was immaculate, with the only hint at use being a smattering of different gym supplement bottles and containers grouped neatly on the counter, and a freshly washed pot drying on the rack next to the sink. The living room, although small, was equally as bare, containing naught more than a dark, canvas couch, a square black coffee table, and a television on the far wall. There was a window to the right, and a mirror next to it, but no other identifying information to be found: no photos, no posters, no movies or magazines strewn about to give any indication that the inhabitant had any hobbies or friends or interests whatsoever. 

There were two other doors to the right of the front door, beyond which Bulma knew she would find the bathroom and his bedroom, but as both were shut she could not comment on the cleanliness of those spaces. Regardless, she imagined them to be equally as tidy and equally as boring. 

Vegeta crossed the hardwood floor of the living space and reached down to pick up the TV remote from the coffee table. "So," he said, flicking the television on with the press of a button, "what are you going to make me suffer through tonight, woman?"

"What do you mean, suffer?" Bulma said, taking a seat on the edge of his couch. She scrutinized the room again, still trying to convince herself that this space belonged to an early twenty-something college male. "You should feel lucky I'm gracing you with my presence at all. I'm a very busy lady, you know."

He dismissed this notion with an incredulous noise, looking over at her with a wry expression on his face. "Right. Want to tell me why you practically bullied me into inviting you over, then?"

Bulma stood briefly to snatch the remote from his hand before settling back down on the couch. "I'm here to give you an education on good kung fu movies, as you seemingly lack decent cinematic taste," she quipped, scanning the options on the screen. She pointedly ignored his latter question. "You didn't even pay attention the last time I was here, and I was giving you background commentary and everything. Way to show your appreciation."

"Appreciation? For what, practically breaking into my apartment and refusing to leave for several hours?" Vegeta had left the living room and was stalking over to the kitchen. "I hardly see how that's deserving of thanks."

"Hey now, you can't deny I helped a little. At least I could bring your fever down a bit, and got your stubborn ass to eat something," Bulma complained. She found a selection on the television she was happy with and flicked it on before tossing the remote next to her on the sofa. "Bring me a water, would you?"

She heard him make an indignant noise from the kitchen, but a moment later he was forcing a bottle of water into her outstretched hand. He glanced at the screen as he took a seat on the far side of the furniture. Bulma noted with amusement that he had situated himself as far from her as the couch allowed. "What is this shit?"

"It is not shit!" 

"Fine. What is this marvelous piece of theatrical genius you're about to subject me to?"

She looked at him, affecting indignation. “Although you may not understand everything happening given your inattention last time, this is the sequel to the movie we watched when you were sick. It’s considered one of the greats, I’ll have you know,” she retorted.

“Oh, well, in that case I’d really better pay attention, huh?” The way his mouth twitched told her he was fighting a smirk.

“Yes, but don’t worry, I’ve seen it enough that I know all the dialogue, so even if you miss something I can give you detailed explanations of what’s going on,” she assured, giving him a look of mock seriousness.

He snorted, but made no further comment, taking the opening credits of the movie as a sign to delve into silence. Bulma, however, found it particularly difficult to make it through any kind of cinema without voicing her own running observations and opinions, even if she had seen the film multiple times before, and almost immediately launched into a declamation on background information of the main characters.

Despite not making any remarks of his own, Vegeta at least seemed to be partially paying attention to her, or at any rate didn’t tell her to shut her trap. She chattered animatedly through the opening scenes, pausing for important bits of dialogue from the characters, already engrossed in the events of the film despite knowing full well what was going to happen.

“See, he feels like his pride has been tarnished by the antagonist – that guy, right there, in the blue – so that’s why he leaves the village in the first place,” she explained about twenty minutes in, her eyes glued to the television screen. “He has this innate need to - ”

“Bulma?”

She stopped talking, surprised into silence by the sound of her name on his lips. Had he ever called her by her name before? Generally all she got were grunts or, at the very best when he found himself forced to address her directly, ‘woman’. She looked at him only to find his own dark eyes already boring into her.  “Yeah?”

He studied her intently, his eyebrows knotted together in the middle of his brow, before speaking again. “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

Another pause. “I don’t know exactly how to describe it. Impassioned?”

“Oh.” She mulled over this as the movie continued on the screen in front of them, trying to decide if she agreed with his assessment. “I mean, yeah, I guess so. I feel pretty strongly about my hobbies in case you couldn’t tell.”

He nodded, and although she felt like she had answered his question, he didn’t take his eyes off her face. She stared back unabashedly, unbothered by his staring.

“Don’t you?” she asked in return after another moment’s silence.

Vegeta nodded again, more slowly this time, as though he was just realizing this as he admitted to it. “Yeah,” he assented, suddenly looking ill at ease. He broke his eyes away from her as his face reddened slightly, turning back to the movie. “I just - I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone else who’s quite as… ardent as you are. Besides myself.”

Was that supposed to be a compliment? She wasn’t sure, but decided to treat it as one all the same. “Well, thanks,” she said. He didn’t turn back to look at her, instead focusing pointedly on the television, his posture stiff. She leaned over and placed her hand on his forearm. “Vegeta, you know you don’t have to be nervous, right? You don’t have any reason to feel embarrassed just for asking a question.”

His arm twitched as her palm made contact with his skin, and he peered at her from the corner of his eyes. “I’m not embarrassed,” he contested heatedly, despite the flush staining his cheeks. Bulma lifted her hand from his arm and touched her fingertips to his jaw, raising an eyebrow at him.

“What’s with the blush, then?” she asked, silently delighting in the way his pupils expanded in surprise at her proximity. He jerked away from her.

“Christ, woman, have you no sense of personal space?” he retorted, giving her an indignant look. Bulma laughed, but pulled away again, back to her side of the sofa.

“Why are you so uptight? Aren’t we friends?” she teased. Getting under his skin was far too easy, and she was loath to give up such an open opportunity to pick on him a little. “Friends should be able to touch each other platonically without acting like weirdos.”

He grumbled at this declaration, obviously not in agreement. “Do you touch all your other friends like that?”

“Maybe not exactly like that, no,” she agreed. She scooted closer to where he sat. “But I also wouldn’t sit on the far end of the couch with my other friends, like one of us had the plague. You can show platonic affection via physical means, too, you know. Goku and I hold hands and hug all the time.”

The mention of Goku seemed to irritate Vegeta, and he gave her a scathing look. “Don’t compare me to that imbecile,” he groused.

“God, what is your deal with him? You act like he’s your mortal enemy or something.”

“He’s just aggravating, with all his fake pep and cheer. He doesn’t take anything seriously.”

“He might not seem like it, but he does take some things seriously,” Bulma disagreed. “That’s not the real reason you don’t like him, though, is it? You don’t like that he’s better than you at - ”

Vegeta cut her off before she could complete her thought. “That fool is _not_ better than me, at anything,” he snapped, and slapped his hand down on the cushion next to him for emphasis.

Despite his vehemence, Bulma laughed. “I don’t know about that. He is definitely better at interpersonal relationships, at least,” she teased, poking at his forearm again.

Her ribbing finally seemed to pluck a chord, and he moved too fast to give her a moment to process what was happening. Before she even realized that she was losing the upper hand, her wrist was clasped in his palm, held over her head, and her back had been pushed against the arm rest of sofa. Vegeta was angled over her, staring down, an indecipherable expression on his face.

“Is this what you want?” His voice had dropped several octaves, taking on a breathy, husky quality, and Bulma’s mouth flopped open like a fish out of water while she struggled to find something to say. It was hard to concentrate with the way he was situated, leaning up against her legs folded against her chest, especially considering she was only wearing a pair of thick black tights for pants. He was mere inches away, close enough to smell the fragrant soap on his skin from when he had showered earlier, and she perceived with embarrassment that part of her discomfort was due to the force with which her heart was pounding in her chest.

“I don’t… what’s ‘this’?” she finally managed to stammer. She felt heat around her ears, and wondered how badly she was blushing.

“This is you losing your nerve.” His upper lip curled slightly as he sneered at her. Her blush deepened as she grasped that he was playing with her.

“That is _not_ fair,” she sputtered, scowling as she pulled her wrist from his grip. “If you’re going to play dirty, then I will, too, and we both know who will win then!”

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Who said anything about playing?”

Before she could process whatever the hell that was supposed to mean, he had pulled away from her and left the couch again to head back to the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And suddenly I start to see  
> So perfect and complex  
> Who are you?  
> 'Cause just with a smile, I'm around you  
> And I'll try my best like I know you  
> Who are you?  
> Who are you to me?"
> 
> Thanks for sticking with my story, guys! It's been a long time (like, ten plus years) since I've written anything longer than an essay, and trying to manage a cohesive plot that is also not too rushed and simultaneously fleshes out believable characters is tricky. I'm sure I'll look back on this in a year and hate it, but for now I'm doing my best!
> 
> I hadn't originally intended on writing Vegeta's perspective into this, but I felt like it would be neat to see snippets of his side, so we can understand him better as Bulma gets to know him, too.
> 
> On a separate note, all these DBS: Broly trailers and screenshots have got me HYPED AF. I've managed to avoid spoilers thus far though, so fingers crossed I can last another two full months... [dies]


	7. A Late Night Visit

The rest of Bulma’s evening with Vegeta went by relatively smoothly, in spite of their inexplicable encounter on the couch.  When he returned from the kitchen, he took a seat next to her – several inches closer than he previously had, she noted – and began asking her questions about the movie that was still playing on the TV. If his intention had been to distract her from whatever it was that had just happened, it worked, because she was more than happy to launch into a long winded explanation of just why the main character felt such a need to punish himself for things that were plainly out of his control.

Vegeta either secretly harbored an impressive aptitude for acting or else genuinely enjoyed the movie, as he watched the rest of it without complaint. Bulma lapsed into silence after a while, recognizing his interest, and instead curled up in her sweater to relish what was left of the movie herself – or at least, she had intended to. As she leaned against the arm rest, head on her hand, she quickly found her thoughts straying from the theatrical fighting on the screen, and in its place began mulling over the insane amount of homework she had blown off to be able to visit Vegeta, and the dynamic she was playing at with him in general.

Was she worried about whatever was happening between them? Truthfully, no. The more she thought about it, the more obvious it became that there was no point. If her relationship with Yamcha had taught her anything, it was that overthinking and overanalyzing any relationship was going to doom it from the start, and she was not keen on reliving that experience. The only thing she was sure of was that she enjoyed Vegeta’s company and would be happy to entertain any kind of connection with him, be it platonic or otherwise.

That wasn’t to say that, if the opportunity were to arise, she wouldn’t jump at the chance to see him naked – just that she wasn’t willing to obsess over ensuring that would happen. She decided, as she watched his rapt expression from the other end of the couch, that she was more than happy to see how things played out and decide what to do as they progressed. If they got closer and things fizzled out, at least they had tried; but she wanted the opportunity to get close to him first, to see if there was a chance.

What she was worried about, though, was her schoolwork. Mid-terms had ended not too long ago, but the second half of the semester always seemed to flash by more quickly than the first, and she was sure it would be no time before she was cramming for finals. There was a daunting amount of work to do until that point, and she couldn’t help but wonder if her time wouldn’t have been better spent that evening at her desk, pouring over mechatronics diagrams, instead of watching a movie she had already seen fifty times with a man whose enjoyment of her company was debatable at best. The amount of time she already committed to her studies left her with barely enough room to breathe, and she was sure if she kept pushing it off to do other things she would soon find herself drowning in it.

At some point during her brooding ruminations she must have begun dozing, because soon she was being hesitantly prodded awake.

“Woman, get up,” Vegeta said, his brusque tone at odds with the gentle way he touched her shoulder. “You’re drooling all over my damn couch.”

Bulma grunted, squinting at him in the dim light of his living room as she stirred. The television had been turned off and the light in the kitchen as well, leaving only the small lamp in the corner of the room to illuminate the space. She looked around as she sat up, stretching. “What time is it?”

“Almost midnight.” He straightened again, his arms crossing over his chest. Normally she would have construed this as a defensive gesture, but now it seemed to come from a more insecure place. “Do you – uh, do you want me to walk you home?”

She smiled at him sleepily, enjoying the way he sheepishly avoided her eyes. “No, you don’t have to,” she said. She unfolded her legs out from under her and stretched them out. “It’s not too long of a walk. I’ll be fine.”

Vegeta didn’t look convinced. “It’s late, though. And cold. Are you sure?”

“Oh, don’t be a worry wart,” she admonished as she stood from the couch. “I’m a big girl. I can make it back to my building without getting lost or murdered.”

He grimaced, but said, “Well, fine then. Suit yourself.”

“Hey, what are you doing tomorrow?” she asked as she gathered her bag. She offered him another smile, meant to disarm his irritation. “Are you going to the MA team Halloween party? Eighteen is making me go. We should go together.”

He snorted and shook his head. “Can you really picture me in costume? Please,” he dismissed. “I do have plans, but not that.”

She frowned. “Oh. Well, that sucks. I was hoping I would see you there,” she said, but shrugged nonchalantly in resignation. “I guess I’ll see you on Monday, then? In class?”

Vegeta hesitated, but nodded after a momentary pause. “Yeah,” he added lamely as Bulma turned towards the door. “Monday.”

“If your plans change for tomorrow, let me know,” she said over her shoulder as she reached the exit. “Thanks for having me over, by the way. Hope you liked the movie.” She gave him one last cursory glance and a small wave before disappearing into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind her.

A strong gust of cold wind smacked her in the face as she left the building moments later, blowing her hair messily about her head. She pulled the neck of her sweater up over her nose in an attempt to brace herself against the frigid temperature, and began the trek back to her dorm.

Although she was perfectly happy to go to the Halloween party by herself, part of her couldn’t help but wonder why Vegeta, who was a member of the team hosting the fundraiser, wouldn’t be there. The more she got to know him, it seemed, the less she understood the inconsistencies of his demeanor. She enjoyed the degree of unpredictability his presence lent to her life, yes, but she was also frustrated by her inability to understand. If his behavior from earlier that evening was any indication, it didn’t appear that he was going to help her in that regard any time soon.

*****

“Yo, you’re up, boss. Hey. Hey! Vegeta! Fucking – hello?!”

Vegeta blinked as Raditz waved his hand wildly in front of his nose. “Get your fucking paw out of my face,” he snapped, smacking the other man’s arm away.

“Well I was trying to get your attention, man,” Raditz said defensively. He let his arm drop back to his side. “My set’s up, I said. It’s your turn.”

Vegeta grumbled as he took his place on the bench, sidling up to so that the bar resting above him was even with his shoulders. “Add another twenty-five to each side, you weakling.”

Raditz made a resentful noise, but complied all the same. “Hey, don’t get pissed at me for asking, but are you okay?” he asked as he replaced the clip on the far end of the stack of plates to ensure they wouldn’t fall off mid-lift. “You’ve been really out of it lately. Not like you.”

He grunted in response, flexing his hands as they closed around the bar. “Fine,” he mumbled. He extended his arms almost fully above him, careful not to lock his elbows, and began slowly lowering the immense weight to his chest. Up, down, up down.

Raditz prattled on from his spot site behind him. “I don’t know, man. Ever since that chick came around the other day, you’ve been real distant. Like, more than usual,” he pressed. Vegeta remained silent, his focus on his technique, and Raditz took his lack of comment as an excuse to continue. “Is it about yesterday? I already said I was sorry for that.”

Vegeta allowed the weight to slam back into place on the rack as he reached his eighth repetition. “Fuck, would you shut up?” he complained, rising from the bench. “I said I’m fine. Stop fucking badgering.”

Truth be told, he was still a little agitated about Raditz’s lapse in judgement from the day before. At this point he was beginning to doubt that Raditz had any judgement from which there could be a lapse.

“I was trying to help! You obviously wanted to call her, so I just… you know, helped nudge you along,” Raditz said meekly, now re-taking his spot on the bench.

“I don’t need your 'help',” Vegeta retorted. He knew he should remove the extra weight, as there was no way Raditz would be able to bench such a heavy amount, but given the current conversation topic he chose instead to watch him struggle. “And if you ever touch my phone again, I’ll fucking murder you.”

“Oh, stop. If I hadn’t texted her for you, she never would have gone over there last night,” Raditz admonished. He swept his unruly mane of hair out from under his shoulders as he laid flat on his back. “That was totally what you wanted. Admit it - you guys are fucking, aren’t you? You’re welcome, in that case.”

Vegeta clenched his jaw. The amount of self-control needed to be around Raditz these days was beginning to tire him. “Shut your trap and lift.”

Truth be told, the fact that Raditz was to blame for Bulma's phone call and eventual visit did not bother him as much as one might have thought. He hadn't been intending to make plans with her, as he was still struggling with knowing he should cut ties with her and yet privately delighting at her readiness to spend time with him. Raditz's subsequent lack of foresight, then, had almost been helpful.

He had been sitting at home after his morning gym session when Raditz and Nappa had shown up unannounced. While not his favorite thing, he had become begrudgingly used to their frequent pop-ins, and had stood aside to let them in. While they turned the TV on to a boxing match and gabbered loudly about their predictions of a possible victor, Vegeta's thoughts had vexingly strayed to the whereabouts of a certain blue haired acquaintance and what she might have been up to. He had drafted half a text to her before thinking better of it and retreating to the bathroom for a shower. When he returned, though, he had found his cell in one of Raditz's oversized mitts, and a completely different message than the one he had written in his 'sent messages' from several minutes earlier. 

The second message sent had been Raditz's attempt at mitigating, which had incensed Vegeta more, and by the time she had called him his mind had been a frayed mess of anger and nerves. Even if he hadn't aimed to actually make arrangements with her he'd felt far too unprepared for the exchange, especially in front of Raditz and Nappa, and hadn't been able to think of any other way around it when faced with her insistence.

That had turned out just fine, though; he had no interest in watching a movie, but if it served as an excuse to be able to spend a couple hours in her presence, he was willing to suck it up. Besides, the film had functioned as a good cover-up for when she flustered him and he needed to pretend his attention was elsewhere focused while he recuperated.

The real root of the issue, and of Vegeta's anger, was Raditz's insubordinate behavior. He had been careless to leave his phone unlocked, sure - but was he not allowed to be a tad less on edge when in the sanctity of his own home? Evidently not, or at least not when he wasn't alone. 

The gall of the oaf, to not only think it wise to peruse his personal communications, but to also take it upon himself to act on some misguided attempt to aid in his social endeavors. The unspoken implication was abrasively offense; as though he were some lost child in need of orienting! He found his hands fisting at the thought, even now, a full day later.

The only reason he had even agreed to see the fool so quickly after his blunder was because Nappa had fallen ill (which Vegeta suspected he could somehow attribute to his own malady from the week previous), and he needed a gym partner to spot his lifts. The idea of asking a random gym patron to fill the role made his skin crawl, and so his hand had been forced.

His phone vibrated in his pocket as Raditz squared his shoulders for his lift. He pulled it out, and found a message from Bulma blinking at him from the screen.

_Happy Halloween! [pumpkin] [rabbit]_

Attached to the message was a photo, and as he scrolled down to look at it he couldn't help but smirk. It was a picture of her from the shoulders up, dressed in what he imagined was the costume she had chosen for the party happening later that day. She had on a red bowtie and a white collar, along with a pair of rabbit ears, and had stuck her tongue out in cute accompaniment of the face she was making, wrinkling her nose. He responded to her, ignoring Raditz's sudden grunts from below him.

_Rabbits don't wear bowties, you know._

"Agh, Ve - " Raditz gargled. "Fuck - 'Geta,  _fucking_  - "

Vegeta turned, annoyed, to observe Raditz's inability to lift the heavy weight loaded onto the bar. He struggled visibly, squirming, as he failed to raise it from his chest.

"If you can't handle that weight, fucking take some off," he snapped, and reached down with one hand to help bring it back to the rack. Raditz exhaled heavily as he sat up, his face red from exertion.

"I thought I might be able to handle it," he panted, looking admonished. 

Vegeta snorted at this ridiculous notion as his phone buzzed again. He glanced down at the screen.

_Well this rabbit is a proponent of academia and professionalism, thank you very much._

Another amused grin escaped his lips unwittingly. To his dismay, Raditz noticed.

"Who's that?" he asked stupidly, trying to peer over his arm at the screen. "Is it that broad again?"

"None of your fucking business," Vegeta snarled, snatching the phone out of view before stuffing it back into his pocket. "Take the twenty-fives off and fucking lift. It's still your goddamn turn."

Chastised, Raditz turned to remove the extra weight without further comment. 

\--

It was after seven o'clock before the indecision really set in.

Vegeta leaned up against his kitchen counter, mindlessly playing with the rice and chicken he was supposed to be eating. He had to be at a frat event at eight but wasn't overly eager to get there on time, given that it was some kind of awards ceremony for active duty members; they would be honoring their military service in light of the upcoming Veteran's day holiday, or some such drivel. All that meant to him was a lot of sitting and listening to never-ending speeches while dressed in obnoxious, stiff formalwear. Not his idea of a good time.

As the day had worn on, he had found it harder and harder not to think about Bulma and the fact that she would be going to the party his teammates were hosting across campus. While he had been relatively unbothered by it the night before when she'd first mentioned going, the texts from earlier and corresponding picture had riled his desire, and now he found his focus continuously shifting back to it.

He sighed, irritated, and dropped the tupperware of hardly touched food back onto the counter. He had no appetite; even if he had, his mind was being pulled into a million different directions and he was feeling too antsy to focus on any one thing. He gripped the edge of the countertop, letting his thoughts wander momentarily, before turning to go into the bathroom. Maybe a cold shower would help.

He stood under the cool stream minutes later, letting the water roll over his shoulders as he exhaled slowly. Why was he so concerned with what that woman was doing? He wasn't sure. A month ago he wouldn't have given it a second thought had she mentioned going to some second rate get-together; it surely wouldn't have swayed him into going. Now, though, he felt more and more compelled to ditch his prior commitment and head over to the community center building where people already had to be gathering, dressed in any number of absurd ensembles. 

It certainly wasn't because he wanted to partake in the imbecilic festivities, that was for sure. His father had never allowed him to participate in Halloween, even as a child, which had created a bitter jealously in him towards the classmates he had that could. By the time he was a preteen his contempt had morphed into cool indifference, and now the holiday just seemed like a waste of time. What was the point in spending time creating a costume, or wasting money on buying one? It would be used once, then tossed aside, and really served no purpose other than a few photo opportunities at the beginning of the night - which he hated anyway. He also rarely had an appetite for sweets, meaning the only possible perk a Halloween party could offer him would be drinking, which he could very well do on any other night. No need for a special occasion.

No, he knew exactly where his interest in attending the event lay. Had Bulma never brought it up, the evening would have passed him by without a regret. She was like a damn magnet, pulling his attention after her wherever she went. He scowled and leaned back into the water, letting it cascade over his face. The whole situation was infuriating.

There was no getting out of this awards event, though. There were a certain number of engagements he was forced to attend in order to maintain his status as a frat member, and this was one of them. Truth be told, he wasn't much bothered with whether he was a member or not, but his father had been quite insistent on his involvement. He understood the benefit - increased access to connections and visibility for future positions and thus promotions - but was still aggravated by the drain on his time it had proved to be. 

He finished his shower absently, toweled his unruly hair dry, and disappeared into his bedroom to get dressed in the bothersome suit and tie he had set aside for the ceremony. He was not a big fan of black tie events, mainly because he found collared shirts to be uncomfortable, and suit jackets to be restricting. It was hard to find clothing other than t-shirts and gym wear that fit him well directly off the rack; his tireless fitness regimen had left him with shoulders and biceps that were larger than most, yet a trim waist, meaning that button up shirts that were wide enough to fit his upper body were far too large past the chest. In other words, he either had to deal with looking ridiculous in overly large attire, wearing clothes that were small and thus hampered his movements, or wasting money to get them tailored. Everything about it irritated him.

He stared at himself in the mirror as he finished knotting his tie. This particular ensemble was one he had gotten custom fit over the summer in anticipation of upcoming events; aside from the fact that his own graduation would be coming up soon, his brother was about to finish high school as well, and there was also always some kind of pretentious military event to attend that he knew would put it to good use. He flattened the cuffs of his stiff white shirt before pulling on the black suit jacket still on a hanger behind him and gave himself a final appraising glance. Aside from the physical discomfort of wearing dress clothes, he also despised the way he looked in them. The sight of himself in such a stuffy wardrobe reminded him of his father, which was something he never strived for. 

Vegeta huffed in annoyance, grabbed his keys, and headed out the door to attend his tedious commitment. 

\--

Two hours later the little patience he had saved for the event was nearly gone, and he was desperately searching for an escape route.

The affair itself was held annually in the large assembly hall where graduations traditionally took place. It was a sizable space capable of housing several hundred people, equipped with a large stage and several balcony seating spaces. The Kappa Lambda Chi function had not managed to fill the place, but there was still a substantial crowd situated amongst the seating area, which would make it difficult for him to slip out unseen.

He slid his phone out of his pocket discreetly to check the time. It was almost ten o'clock. He sighed, rubbing at his temple; the prattling coming from the old man currently at the microphone was giving him a headache, and, coupled with the overly warm suit and jacket he was wearing, he was getting desperate to get away. He was situated near the end of the aisle, in between two other frat members who had similarly gotten sucked into attending. Each member had to comply with attendance to a certain number of frat sponsored events each semester, and as December was drawing nearer and people had still neglected to meet the minimum requirement, there were a considerable number of his frat brothers present amongst the crowd. He wondered if any of them would rat him out of he were to leave early.

He was about to put his phone back into his pocket when it buzzed in his hand. He pulse spiked in anticipation and he glimpsed downward, embarrassed to admit he was hoping to see another message from Bulma. Sure enough, there it was.

_Wish you were here._

He frowned. What did that mean? Was something wrong? He sent her a response asking as much.

_Everything okay?_

It took several seconds for her to respond, and when she did her response did little to clear his confusion.

_Yeah, just would like to see you._

His heart thumped restlessly in his chest. It was hard for him to read a message like that and not interpret it as being sarcastic or mocking, but everything he had managed to learn about Bulma told him she was sincere and generally kindhearted. She hadn't yet done anything to make him suspect that she had some kind of ulterior motive, despite the deep seeded mistrust he housed in the back of his mind, and yet the idea of someone harboring some kind of interest in him - true, honest interest that wasn't motivated by social status or some other shallow incentive - was so foreign it seemed nonsensical.

What did normal people do? How would he react to that text were he not a controlling psycho? He very frequently saw seemingly happy couples all over campus, and although he had never thought his lifestyle was well suited for that kind of arrangement, he now found himself questioning that decision. Who said it had to be a permanent fixture in his life? Could he not enjoy her while he had the chance? He knew full well that wouldn’t be in the cards after he went to basic training, so wasn’t the smartest thing to do it while he could? The indulgent portion of his brain was screaming at him for not jumping at the opportunity, and he suddenly felt like an idiot for not taking full advantage of her obvious interest. She was beautiful, and smart, and he enjoyed her company. What was he doing?

Vegeta gave one last furtive peek around the auditorium before standing into a crouch and edging his way to the exit.

It only took him ten minutes to jog to the community center from the amphitheater, as it was situated just outside the confines of the campus near the coffee shop Bulma had dragged him to just days earlier. He heard the music thumping inside the small building before it even came into view, and as he came around the corner he realized there were a decent number of people still waiting in line outside. He slowed as he got closer, but chose to bypass the queue and instead headed straight to the front.

Two people were sat at the front entrance to accept tickets or payment to enter. It took him several minutes to recognize them as his teammates, thanks to their ludicrous outfits. 

One of them was the tall, dark skinned man whose name Vegeta did not know, but whom often could be found with Bulma’s other two friends, Kakarot and – well, the short bald one whose name he also didn’t know. Vegeta wasn’t sure he had ever heard this particular teammate speak, which was just to his liking. The man was currently dressed in some kind of alien get-up, with two dangly antennas somehow fastened to his forehead.

The other was Kakarot himself, and had it not been for the fact that he’d taken off his mask, Vegeta would never have known it was him. He was in what appeared to be a gorilla suit, covered in dark fur, and the mask that was currently sitting on his lap looked like it pulled over his entire head, like a hood. Vegeta stifled an eye roll as he approached.

“Hi sir, could you ple – oh, wow! Hey, Vegeta! You look great,” Kakarot babbled with a stupid grin as he approached. The other man glanced at him, but otherwise made no point to acknowledge his presence and instead continued to accept tickets from incoming patrons. “What are you supposed to be? A mobster?”

Vegeta scoffed. “Tsch. Sure, whatever. I’m not staying, anyway,” he said evenly, his hands jammed moodily in his pockets. “I just came to… to check on something. I’ll be in and out.”

“You should stay! There’s no charge for team members, anyway,” Kakarot answered jovially. He accepted a ticket from the next person in line and tore it in half before drawing an “X” on the top of their hand with a marker. “It’s pretty packed in there, though. Got too hot for me in my costume. ‘S why I’m out here.”

Vegeta disregarded this warning and pushed past the dolt without another word, but the change in temperature upon entrance was immediate and suffocating. There had to be several hundred people packed into the space, with the majority of them concentrated in the middle of the room in what he imagined was functioning as a dance floor. The music, which had been loud outside, was nearly intolerable in the closed area. The headache he had been nursing for the past hour throbbed unpleasantly.

The little space that was free of dancing people was focused around the perimeter, where tables had been set up for students to cluster around. There were a few longer tables loaded with snacks and drinks as well, but he ignored those as he began to circle the space, looking for a rabbit with blue hair.

It seemed near impossible to find her. He had imagined it would be a simple task given her unique coloring, but after fifteen minutes of pushing through sweaty people as they gyrated to the thumping rhythm assaulting his senses, he found he was slick with perspiration and beginning to wonder if she was really there at all. Had he missed her? It was entirely possibly she had gotten sick of the scene herself and left. His phone rumbled partway through search, but proved to be nothing more than an annoying message from Raditz asking if he wanted to go drinking.

He paused at the corner of the room, pulling on his tie in an attempt to alleviate his fettered breathing, and decided to give the space one last sweep before just heading back to his dorm. He was beginning to feel the onslaught of self-consciousness he'd been ignoring since he arrived begin to take hold in light of his pathetic searching and was keen to leave before it got worse. 

As he was turning to begin another loop around the crowd, someone at a table several feet away shifted to the right and the movement caught his attention. He looked over and, to his surprise, there sat Bulma. She was perched on the edge of a table, her legs swinging freely, her face contorted with laughter at some unheard comment. She was indeed wearing the laughable pair of bunny ears, as well as the bow tie and white collar, but what his eyes were immediately drawn to was what the photo she had sent earlier hadn't captured: the rest of the outfit. 

She had on a clingy black bodysuit, much like what a ballerina might wear, except that it was strapless, allowing for a generous view of her ample cleavage. She had paired the skimpy leotard with a pair of bright blue tights, which hugged her shapely legs as though they'd been painted on, and an impressive pair of ruby red heels, clasped at the ankle. She sat primly with her hands in her lap and her legs crossed at the ankle, swaying idly back and forth, a perfect picture of nonchalant beauty.

The sight of her catalyzed a series of conflicting reactions within him. It would have been senseless to deny the fact that she looked radiant, like something straight out of a pinup magazine, and he felt himself redden as his eyes lingered on her bust for several seconds past what could be considered acceptable. He had known she was attractive, of course, but as she was usually dressed in nothing more than some jeans and a tee, the perfection she had apparently been hiding sent his mind spinning. He couldn't help but let his thoughts wander, mulling over what she would look like without the outfit at all, and felt an unfamiliar tingling in his extremities at the idea of sliding his hands around her backside and pulling her close to him. It was hard not to, given the fact that the bodysuit left very little to the imagination. 

Realization slapped him like a bucket of cold water at this thought. He was right - it did leave very little to the imagination, which would have been fine had it only been  _his_ , but they were in a room with hundreds of other people. What the ever loving fuck was she doing, parading around in public like that? A small part of his subconscious reminded him that she wasn't his, that he had no right to be angry with any of her choices, but he stomped on that notion as indignant anger bubbled within him. 

It was made worse by the fact that she hadn’t gone unnoticed; in fact, she was surrounded by people, which explained why it had been so damn hard to find her. A few of them he recognized - the severe blonde that lived with her, for example, as well as the short bald moron he was embarrassed to call a teammate - but there were many unfamiliar faces, including the man currently courting her attention. 

Nothing about him would have gotten Vegeta’s attention on a normal day. He was of average build and height, with dark hair that reached below his ear, and was dressed in some kind of safari costume. He stood up against the table Bulma was sitting on, engaged in conversation with her, and was apparently the cause of her continued laughter. Vegeta watched as the fool’s mouth moved, his eyes trained on Bulma, and whatever he said evoked another cascade of giggles from her. She reached out and placed her hand on his shoulder as she laughed and he smirked back at her in return. 

Something ugly reared its head somewhere in Vegeta's gut, and doubt began to snake its way through his body. What was he going to do, march over there to her in the middle of her friends and just say ‘hi’? This had been a mistake. She looked perfectly happy surrounded by her friends, by other guys who made her laugh, and he knew with abrupt clarity that he would never fit into that part of her life. He would never be able to idly stand around with these people, joking and drinking, no matter how much he may have wanted to be close to her. He'd been naive to think that she had really wanted to see him, that his presence could be anything other than a chore for her. He was not what she thought he was, what she needed. The truth of it hurt him more than he wanted to admit.

The excitement he'd felt upon finding her drained from his senses and was replaced by a numb, dull hurt. It was plain to see now that she'd taken him up as some kind of charity case. He knew she was a good person and didn't doubt that whatever had motivated her attempts at befriending him had been well intentioned, but now it felt cruel and embarrassing. It had been unimaginably stupid to think that his feelings - whatever the fuck they were; he still wasn't sure - could have been reciprocated. Humiliation washed over him, and his hand fisted by his side. 

Vegeta glimpsed back over at her, intent on getting a final look before he turned to go, only to see that her attention had been diverted his way. The blonde she was sitting next to had seen him, and was pointing her gaze in his direction.  He caught a look at her expression, genuine surprise that quickly bloomed into delight, then quickly turned to escape before she could catch him.

He had almost made it to the door when he felt her pull on his elbow.

“Vegeta!” she hollered over the unreasonably loud music. Her face was red from the stifling heat, but she was smiling unrestrainedly. “Where are you going? I’m so glad you came! You look really handsome!"

His mouth thinned as he looked at her, doing his best not to focus on the cleft of her breasts pushed into view by her outfit. The heels she was wearing brought her up to eye level, and as he trained his own dark gaze onto her blue one, he felt his pulse quicken involuntarily. He steeled himself against her charm, decided in his rejection. "I shouldn't have come. I'm leaving."

She frowned at him, leaning close to make sure she could be heard. "Oh, please don't! Come back over to my table - I want you to meet my friends!"

He looked back over at the table she had come from, where the group of people she had left behind were openly staring at them. He scowled and shook his head at her. "No. This kind of thing isn’t for me. I'll see you around."

Her grip on his elbow tightened as he tried to pull away again. "Well if you're not going to stay, let me come with you!" she said, her brow furrowed stubbornly. "Let's go hang out and get something to eat!" 

He rounded on her, his agitation mounting. "What for?!" he shouted, partially to be heard but also out of exasperation. Her enthusiastic expression had begun to wane and he felt a spark of guilt in his gut knowing he was the cause. "You looked just fine over there without me! Go back to your friends!" 

She raised an eyebrow. "What are you talking about?" she asked, searching his face as though looking for the answers he wouldn't verbally provide. Abruptly her eyes widened incrementally, and, to his mortification, she fought a grin. "Are you - are you  _jealous_?" 

On some level he may have recognized that that was indeed the name of the unsightly feeling twisting around in his chest, but hearing it out loud made him cringe. Despite the noise, they were still surrounded by people and the idea that someone might overhear was humiliating. "What the fuck would I be jealous for?" he sneered. His attempt at nonchalance sounded unconvincing even to his own ears. 

"Vegeta, you have no reason to be jealous!" Her free hand had gravitated to her hip in a show of her frustration. She removed it to gesture behind her, at the group of friends still watching them from afar. "They're just my friends - I've known all of them for years! They're like family! I have no romantic interest in any of them, at all."

"Well, good for you!" He was beginning to sense he might be overreacting, and the embarrassment of it all only proved to further fan his temper. He tugged on the arm she still had her hand clasped around. "I won't keep you from them, then. Let me go!" 

She clutched his arm more firmly than ever, a determined look on her face. "Stop being a jackass!" she snapped. The juxtaposition of her visible anger and the ridiculous costume she had on was almost funny, but she still managed to be somehow daunting as her expression darkened. "I'm just trying to be your friend! Stop making it so damn difficult!" 

He ripped his arm from her grasp, causing her to stumble uncertainly on her heels. The hurt on her face was a punch to the gut, but he plowed on, childishly determined to crush her feelings as she had done with his, however unintentional that had been. "I don't fucking need your _charity_ friendship! Fuck off!" He was full on yelling at this point, and almost too preoccupied to notice someone approach Bulma from behind. He glanced up. 

It was the undistinguished idiot that she had been talking to earlier. He placed his hand on her shoulder as he arrived, and Vegeta's ire intensified. 

"Bulma, Eighteen sent me to make sure everything was okay," he said, ignoring Vegeta entirely. His expression was hard to read, but there was a hard aspect to the man’s eyes that surprised him.

"Oh – yes, I'm fine, thank you. I'll be right back - just go wait back at the table, Seventeen."

"Yeah, fucking beat it, pal," Vegeta couldn't help but add scathingly. Something about the other guy's body language oozed confidence, and he was suddenly eager to knock him down a few pegs. "She'll be done when she's done." 

“Hey, cut it out,” Bulma complained, giving him a warning look. Her companion paused, looking between the two of them, as though unconvinced he should leave just yet. Vegeta ignored Bulma and took a step closer to the other man.

“I fucking said get lost!” he barked at him. He was vaguely aware that people around them were beginning to stare, but his temper had temporarily stolen the wheel from any rational thought he might have otherwise heeded. If he was going to be a spectacle, then so be it - he would at least do it right. He shoved the other man roughly, pushing him in the direction from whence he'd come. “Now, go!”

To his delight the other guy stared back at him darkly, then squared his stance to match his own so they were facing each other. His arms hung loosely at his sides, but Vegeta could see the tension in his forearms, and was hit with a sudden eagerness to throw fists. Adrenaline surged through his body, both from his altercation with Bulma but also at the prospect of kicking the shit out of someone. That kind of release would do him well right now. It excited him on a carnal level, and his skin tingled in anticipation. 

He let out a bark of laughter at his opponent's change in body language, his lip curling. "What the fuck are you going to do, then?" 

Bulma’s head whipped back and forth between them, apparently at a loss. "STOP it!" she hollered, placing her hand on the other man's chest. "Seventeen, please, don't instigate. It's not - oh, Christ - EIGHTEEN! This is NOT helping! COME GET HIM!" 

"Relax, Bulma, I'm not going to _start_ anything," Seventeen replied, but his eyes danced mischievously, contradicting his words. "I'd hate to hurt him, you know." 

Vegeta flexed his fingers at the provocation, but smirked, enjoying the banter. This man obviously had a death wish. Although he was a few inches taller, Vegeta was undoubtedly more muscular, and he felt confident he could knock him out without much effort. "You seem like a big talker for someone who doesn't want to take a shot."

"I thought I'd give you that honor,  _sir_ ," he said calmly as the corner of his mouth quirked upwards. “If you think you can handle it, that is.” Vegeta's heartbeat thudded in his ears. Was he mocking him? 

Any surviving logic fled him, and he lunged forward, his fist outstretched. Seventeen dodged nimbly to the right, missing his attack altogether, and Vegeta felt his frustration spike. He was vaguely aware of Bulma shouting in the background, but was too preoccupied to pay any mind to the content of her words. 

As quickly as he had dodged, Seventeen followed up with a swift elbow to the jaw. Shocked by his speed, Vegeta barely managed to block it before he was faced with a knee to the gut, then a fist to the jaw, then another punch to the ribs. The onslaught came without warning and he found himself backed defensively into a corner before he had time to forge an attack plan. His movements were hampered by his stiff clothing and despite his best attempts to keep up a defensive front, he soon realized he was losing ground. This became startlingly more obvious as Seventeen feinted to the side with impressive ease, only to swing back around and land his knuckles solidly against Vegeta’s temple.

And then, as quickly as it had started, it was over. Seventeen was hauled away and Vegeta felt strong arms pin his own behind his back and drag him from the space. A circle of spectators had formed around them, and they watched intently as he was pulled through the open door into the cool night beyond. 

"Calm down, buddy," his captor's voice muttered in his ear once they had reached the parking lot. He was annoyed to realize it belonged to Kakarot. He wrenched his arms from the grip he'd been held in, spinning around defensively. 

"Get the fuck off me," he spat. He felt something dribble down the side of his face and wiped at it. He was surprised to see blood on his hand. 

"Your eyebrow is split," Kakarot explained, noting his perplexity. His tone seemed condescending somehow, even as he stood there in his stupid gorilla outfit, and Vegeta fought the urge to slug him. "You might need stitches. Looks pretty deep." 

"Fuck you. I'm fine." His head was reeling, still trying to overcome the shock of being bested in such a childish scrap. How had that other guy managed to get in so many hits? He'd thought for sure he was better equipped for the fight, but had somehow not been able to land any punches of his own. Worse yet, what was close to probably a hundred people had witnessed it.

And Bulma.  _Bulma_. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to forget the look of outrage on her face. As the rush of adrenaline slowly filtered from his system, he was left with a feeling of creeping shame at the memory of his harsh words, and at the obvious disappointment in her expression. 

Whatever. He hadn't asked for her attention. If anything, he had discouraged it from the start. He'd done everything he could think of aside from outright avoiding her physical presence, and she had still persisted in showing up uninvited, texting him, inviting him out. Whatever he had thought he stood to gain from the interactions, he'd been wrong. It was better for it to end this way; certainly now he'd destroyed whatever hope she had that he could be a decent human being, and she would let it die. 

Kakarot was talking, saying something about medical attention, but Vegeta was in no mind to pay him any attention. People had started filtering out of the community center curiously, trying to get an eye on what was going on, and while he didn't care much for whatever they probably thought about him he also wasn't keen on give them something to gossip about. 

Without another word, he turned on his heel and left. 

*****

Trying to work through what exactly had happened at the Halloween party gave Bulma a headache. While she wanted nothing more than to push it to the back of her mind and just forget it had ever happened, the guilt in the bottom of her stomach was a firm reminder of its presence in her thoughts. Eventually, she ran out of reasons to avoid the topic and forced herself to try to understand where it had all gone south. She decided to tackle it from an analytical standpoint, which made the most sense to her, and broke it down into a number of possibilities.

In retrospect, it seemed to her that something had been wrong with Vegeta before she'd even talked to him. The attitude he'd faced her with had been petulant at best, and while she knew from previous interactions with him that he had an over-sized, fragile ego, it seemed ridiculous that he would get upset over something as simple as seeing her with friends. No, there was definitely something larger at play here. She'd scrapped the notion that he was simply a macho hothead from the get-go; too much about him had shown her otherwise.

Did he maybe suffer from social anxiety? It would explain a lot of his antisocial behaviors, including delving into solitary activities like weight lifting. Maybe he had gone to the party, been overwhelmed by the crowd, and reacted poorly as a result. It was surely a possibility.

Perhaps it was something more obscure, like a bad day gone even worse. She knew that there had been times in the past when she'd been stressed out by something unrelated and lashed out at those around her unnecessarily. Being that Vegeta seemed to repress his feelings anyway, it was certainly feasible that he had blown his stack after squashing too much for too long.

If that were the case, though, then why had he come looking for her in the first place? He had been adamant that he'd had other plans, so what would have pushed him to swing by the event? Had it been for something other than seeing her? Maybe running into her had been a complete coincidence, which was why he'd fled as soon as she'd noticed his presence. This idea made her uncomfortable, though; her stomach churned at the likelihood that he'd been trying to run from her as a person instead of what she might represent for him insofar as emotional growth. Up until now she had blamed his erratic behavior on his unwillingness to face his feelings, but maybe he really did just hate her.

After Goku had dragged Vegeta from the scuffle with Seventeen, Bulma had tried to follow but been stopped by Eighteen and Krillin. Krillin's reasoning had been more logical -  _"He's obviously pissed and will probably need some time to cool down, so just give him some space."_  - whereas Eighteen had been full of vitriol -  _"If you go after him, I'm coming with, and I will fucking murder him."_  - and Bulma had found herself arguing with them instead of just turning and chasing after him like she should have. 

If anything was obvious about Vegeta it was that he was a complicated soul. He took nothing at face value and read much too far into everything, and she was hesitant to condemn him entirely despite her friends' advice. By the time she finally did get outside, all she found was Goku who had no helpful information other than Vegeta had already left and gone God knows where. She'd been forced to go home without closure, and spent the better part of the night debating whether or not she should just go barge over to his dorm. 

Sunday had been spent similarly, waffling between wanting to drop in on him and wanting to give him space and time. All the while Eighteen complained loudly about the debacle, insisting Vegeta was an asshole, with no mention of the fact that her brother had instigated knowing full well Vegeta was already angry. Bulma made a mental note to ream Seventeen out the next time he was in town; he'd come into town for a school event of his own and had stayed exclusively for the party, only to leave early that morning before she could get a chance to give him a piece of her mind. 

In the end Bulma had decided to wait until the following afternoon during their Spanish class to broach the subject with Vegeta. At the very least, he wouldn't be able to escape from her in that setting. The problem, she realized as she walked into the lecture hall, was that she hadn't accounted for him just not coming in at all. Which he didn't.

She scanned the room desperately, hoping against hope that he was just talking to someone else, but found the space devoid of anything Vegeta related. She'd been forced to sit at the table by herself, a pouty look on her face for the duration of the class, trying to focus on proper accent placement instead of the overwhelming disappointment she could feel raging around her system. This was his second absence in as many weeks, and it was hard not to imagine that at least this one was an intentional jab at her.

Was he still upset about the way things had happened? Had he blown off class because he really didn't want to see her? What if something else was wrong, and he was sick again? Her mind turned in a million different directions, knotting itself into corners and unable to come up with any kind of satisfying hypothesis that could account for his absence. Even though she thought she normally had a decent grasp on Vegeta's motives, she was beginning to wonder if that had been naive, as now it seemed he only ever left her with doubts and questions.

She tried texting him after that, probing to see if he would answer, but after five unreciprocated messages she figured it would be distinctly stalker-like to send any more and thus stopped. If he wasn’t answering it was because he very decidedly didn’t want to, which meant he  _was_  avoiding her. Why did that realization sting so badly? After some deliberation she realized it was because she didn’t feel like she’d done anything wrong.

What awful crime had she committed that warranted complete ex-communication? She had been nice to him (unless otherwise provoked), worried about him, invited him out and tried to include him in any way she could think of, all while trying her best to be mindful of his boundaries and any possible discomfort on his part. The idea that he could have somehow been offended by any of those things boggled her mind, and she briefly pondered the idea that he might be from some kind of alien species. It surely would have explained a lot.

The worst part of it was that she didn't even have anger to fall back on. In past experiences - or, let's be real, with Yamcha - she had been able to power through the multi-day fallout from an argument by relying on her temper to soften the blow, and hadn't had to deal with hurt or rejection or any other of the myriad emotions she was surely suppressing somewhere in her overloaded subconscious. Now, though, she found she wasn't angry at Vegeta; really, she was just disappointed and frustrated. The stupid fight at the party had been annoying, but mostly because she couldn't understand where the fuck it had come from. When she had left him the previous day at his apartment they had been on good terms, so what had happened during the few hours they'd been apart to change that?

Still, as the days slipped by and she continued unable to get in contact with him, Bulma had to acknowledge that he simply was trying to distance himself from her. She couldn’t fathom why, but that was the nature of relationships, especially as an adult: sometimes shit went south and you never got a satisfactory explanation as to why. They just  _did_.

The overwhelming distress she experienced at the hands of this revelation this was embarrassing, to the point where she didn’t even bring it up to Eighteen for fear of reproach. She spent the better part of Wednesday moping, staring off into space during her lectures, and ignoring the majority of the instruction given by her professors. In the evening she struggled through an hour or so of homework before shoving it aside and crawling into bed with the hope that a decent night’s sleep would get her out of the strange funk she seemed to have fallen into. When she and Yamcha had gone through rough patches, she had found solace in diving headfirst into her studies; now, though, reminders of Vegeta were directly wound into her assignments, making it impossible for her to avoid his face. How was she supposed to work through Spanish grammar exercises when all she could picture was his mocking expression?

Unfortunately, when she woke up on Thursday it wasn’t to a refreshed state of mind but to a pounding headache and an unwillingness to leave the comfort of her bedsheets. She stared at the ceiling of her room miserably for a few moments, debating the best course of action, before firmly deciding she deserved a lazy day in bed. She hadn’t missed a single class all semester – or, if she was being honest, in several semesters – and obviously needed to relax. The residual stress from the Halloween party as well as the continued pressure from her schoolwork was obviously having a physical effect on her, and if she wanted to get back to normal she needed to give her body the rest it so plainly longed for. She dragged her laptop into bed to send a quick email to her professors apologizing for her absence and blaming illness, before rolling back over and burrowing herself under her comforter. Fuck it. She would deal with her responsibilities later.

The day jumped by in fragmented chunks as she swam in and out of consciousness, doing her best not to think about the only dogged topic her brain seemed to want to focus on. She didn’t want to think about Vegeta, she wanted to forget about it entirely. No, that was a lie – what she wanted was to barge over to his apartment and demand he stop being such a coward, but what would that really achieve? He had made it alarmingly clear via nearly a week of avoidance that he wanted to be left alone, even if she suspected that wasn’t what he truly sought in his heart of hearts. If anything, she at least wished she could have apologized to him for the way things had turned out, but as he wasn’t answering any of her correspondence that seemed an impossibility as well.

Or was it? Just because he wasn’t responding to her texts didn’t mean he wasn’t reading them. She rolled over in bed and glanced at the clock on her wall. It was early afternoon, which meant he was probably in the gym, and would certainly have his phone on him. She snatched at where her phone sat on the bedside table and pulled up their text conversation.

_I'm sorry about the way things happened on Saturday. Hope you're okay. Miss seeing you around._

Hmm. A tad melodramatic, maybe, but not untrue. She hit send and watched the screen for a moment before setting her phone down again.

Part of her sensed that she might be a little crazy. If anything,  _he_  deserved to apologize to  _her_ , right? Yes, she amended, he did; he had been a gargantuan, infantile asshole and if he had any common sense at all would have already reached out to her to extend an olive branch. But that didn’t mean that she hadn’t pushed his buttons and made the situation worse in her own way. She should have let him go the first time he said he was leaving, or at least gone outside with him to talk about it. Instead she’d insisted on making it a public display when it very well could have been a calm chat in the parking lot.

But whatever. She sighed, irritated, and rolled over again to go back to sleep. Relationships had to be a two-way street to work, and she had very decidedly found herself on a one-way track to frustrationville in this circumstance. She recognized that he had issues, but the existence of said issues was not what she had a problem with; rather, it was Vegeta's unwillingness to acknowledge or work through them that proved difficult. As long as he walled himself off to her, it was out of her hands. He would have to make the first move.

\--

To her surprise, Vegeta did decide to make the first move, and much sooner than she had expected. Alarmingly soon. As in, around twelve hours later, in the middle of the night.

"Bulma."

Bulma grunted, pulling the bed sheets tighter around her shoulders.

"Bulma. Hey. Get up."

"Go away," she groaned, edging under her comforter as though it would provide a feasible barrier between herself and whoever was trying to rouse her.

"Bulma. You have to get up. Prince charming is outside looking for you."

Her eyes darted open. Had she heard that right? Surely not. "Huh?" she said, still half asleep as she propped herself up on an elbow tiredly and looked around her room. It was dark, and she could barely make out the outline of Eighteen next to her bed with help from the light shining in from the hallway. "What d'you mean?"

Eighteen sighed, looking as if she had been woken rather unexpectedly herself. "I said, short-dark-and-grumpy is outside asking for you. Or yelling for you, rather."

She blinked at Eighteen blearily, still not convinced she was understanding. "Vegeta?" she asked flatly. She wasn't sure who else 'short-dark-and-grumpy' could refer to, but the rest of that sentence sounded very much like someone who wasn't him. "Vegeta is here, now? Looking for me?"

"Are you fucking deaf? Yes, he's outside right now. Please go see what the fuck he wants. He's fucking persistent and won't leave."

Bulma paused. She couldn't hear anyone else - on the contrary, everything was still and quiet - but Vegeta had proved to be a man of few words, so this meant little. She sat unmoving for another tick, trying to force her body to catch up with her mind, before sliding her legs over the side of her bed and touching her feet to the ground. 

“He’s out on the balcony. I tried to make him go but he copped an attitude and I couldn't get a handle on him, so hopefully you can,” Eighteen offered, her tone very clearly implying she found this entire situation obnoxious. She turned to leave, presumably back to her bedroom. “Now go fucking deal with it before I go out there and kick his ass.”

Bulma rubbed at her eyes, and leaned over to snatch a pair of abandoned leggings from the floor at the foot of her bed. She was only in a tank top and panties, her usual sleepwear, and knew that the cool temperatures outside would freeze her where she stood if she didn’t pull on some extra layers. She followed the leggings with some thick socks and a sweater before meandering down the hall to the front entrance.

When she slowly swung the door open, Bulma's initial thought was that it was all an elaborate joke, as the balcony appeared to be deserted. It wasn't until she came farther out of the apartment to look around that she saw Vegeta on the ground next to the doorway, his knees pulled up to rest his arms on and his head slumped forward. 

"Vegeta?"

He must not have heard her open the door, because his head shot up in surprise at her voice. He looked around wildly, blinking, before settling his eyes on her. He stared blearily for several moments before offering up a hoarse, "Hi."

Something was wrong. His reaction time was way off and his gaze was unfocused, like he was having trouble concentrating on any one focal point. Bulma scrutinized him. "Hi," she said, leaning up against the balcony railing behind her. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah," he said vaguely. She waited several seconds for him to elaborate, but when he didn't, she made an indignant noise.

"Well?" she said, crossing her arms over her chest. It may have been due to the fact that it was the  _middle of the goddamn night_ , but despite her interest - and, fine,  _excitement_  - at Vegeta turning up to talk to her finally, she felt a tinge of agitation in the face of his reticent manner. She had been trying to reach out to him all week and he had deigned not to answer her, so what had spurned him to show up so suddenly? Or, better yet, to choose such an obscene hour. "Did you just want to come by and say  _hi_  at two in the morning after a week of ignoring me completely, or does this visit actually have a purpose?"

He turned his eyes away from her at that, looking more like an admonished puppy than a fully grown man. He mumbled something incoherent into his shoulder.

"Huh? You have to speak up, Vegeta."

He growled, rolling his eyes, prompting Bulma to purse her lips. Only Vegeta could impose himself on someone so self-indulgently and then act like  _he_ was being inconvenienced somehow. When he spoke his words tumbled out in a barely coherent rush. "I said, _Iwannaapologize_."

She narrowed her eyes at him, ignoring his words completely and instead focusing on the slurred delivery. Suddenly, his bizarre attitude and mannerisms made sense. "Vegeta, are you fucking  _drunk_?"

Vegeta squirmed at this accusation, but then set his shoulders back in what she assumed was his attempt to appear fully in control and not tipsy in the slightest. It instead reminded her of a rooster, chest puffed out comically. "No," he contested hotly, again scowling at her. "Not  _drunk_. Just... buzzed."

"Seriously?" The frustration in her voice was clear, her tone sharpened to a fine point. She crossed her arms firmly over her chest, partially to ward off the chill that permeated her inadequate clothing as a breeze blew through. "You're  _unbelievable_. You know what, how about we put a pin in this conversation until you take it seriously enough to bother participating sober?"

"Wait," he said, reaching out to grab hold of her wrist as she turned to go back inside. "Please. I didn't mean to - I wasn't - it's because - " he let loose a frustrated sigh, irritated at his own inability to form a coherent sentence. "'S - I'm just... 'm not good at -  _this_."

She stared down at him where he sat, still perched on the ground next to the door to her dorm, annoyance pulling her features taught. "You're going to need to be more specific than that. What do you mean, 'this'?"

Vegeta made a grumbly noise, again looking like he resented her for making him actually give a voice to what he was thinking. "I dunno - fucking  _feelings_ ," he offered with emphasis, looking mildly embarrassed. Although his speech wasn't terribly slurred like she would have expected from a drunk, she could recognize a certain willingness to speak freely that was not usual to the Vegeta she knew. "It's... hard. For me, I mean. To talk about it."

"Well, yeah, anyone who has had any interaction with you at all can tell you're not exactly any open book." His grip on her wrist had slackened, but he hadn't yet retracted his hand, and was instead gripping her fingers idly. She felt another chill that may or may not have been due to the temperature. "I'm not asking you to write a goddamn dissertation on how you feel. I just want a little insight into what the hell goes on in your head. Keeping me in the dark is not fair."

"I just dunno what to say," he murmured. Between his garbled delivery and low volume, Bulma barely understood the comment.

"How about the truth, then?" she asked scornfully. Evidently she'd been sitting on more frustrations than she'd thought. She hadn't intended on being so critical when she'd first come out to talk - she liked to give people the benefit of the doubt, generally - but found she couldn't control her temper when faced with Vegeta's unwillingness to just cut through the bullshit and be forward and honest. Apparently alcohol had failed to loosen him up completely, as even when half-drunk he was proving incredibly tight lipped. "Why are you here, in the middle of the goddamn night, half blitzed?" 

Vegeta's faced contorted again, his discomfort visible. She could practically see the cogs turning behind his eyes, frantically spinning in an attempt to find the easiest way out of this conversation. Minutes stretched by and he held his brooding silence. She stood before him, unmoving and unwilling to cede. Eventually, he turned his eyes from her to the ground, and managed a mumbled, "I, uhh - wanted to... err - see you." 

"For what? I'd gotten the impression that was the last thing you wanted these days."

He scowled at that. "Are you kidding?" he griped. "You are all I thought about all fucking week." 

Bulma arched a brow at him, pointedly ignoring the way her heart skipped around at his words. So he had been thinking about her? "You have a funny way of showing it." 

He sighed forcefully, irritation plain on his face. "Are you going to let me fucking talk? Or is it even worth it? You hate my fucking guts, right?" 

Bulma raked her teeth over her bottom lip, pondering his petulant expression. "No, I don't hate you. I just think you acted like an idiot." 

"Yeah, well, me too, for what it's worth," he snapped. The fingers of one of his hands were still entangled with hers, though she couldn't be sure if it was intentional or he'd just forgotten.

"Do you want to tell me what the hell happened?" she asked, giving said fingers a gentle squeeze. This was the most sustained physical contact they had ever managed, and she was oddly loath to give it up. 

"I don't..." he stalled, looking flustered. "It's... stupid." 

Sensing she was close to getting some semblance of honesty from him, Bulma lowered herself to the ground next to him. "Vegeta, I would never laugh at you. Unless, you know, you were trying to be funny, or fell down or something," she said, allowing herself a small smile that she hoped would prove comforting to him. Her anger had melted slightly upon seeing his shyness, and now she was just plain curious. “Don’t be nervous.”

He gazed back at her, and after a moment he swallowed thickly. "I... I don't think... I'm not - uh, _good_ , for you, " he managed weakly. Up close she could see a small piece of medical tape above one of his eyebrows, concealing what looked to be stitches. She resisted the urge to reach out and gingerly touch it. 

"Good?" she repeated. Her own eyebrows lifted slightly again. "You mean, like, you're a bad influence on me?" 

Vegeta glanced at her, looking truly miserable. "Yeah, maybe," he said lamely, focusing resolutely on the end of his sweatshirt sleeve. He had turned a distinct shade of pink, but it was hard to say whether it was because he'd been drinking or because he was embarrassed in light of the newfound direction of their conversation. "But I just don’t think I’d be a very good... _friend_." 

Bulma readjusted her hand in his so as to better hold it. Her fingers brushed over the pulse of his wrist gently. "Are you worried you're not good enough to be my friend?" She knew 'friend' was a loaded term in this scenario, and that what he was implying seemed to go beyond being just buddies, but she also didn't want to discomfort him further by being too bold with the vocabulary. He barely seemed to be able to deal with the concept of mere friendship as it was. 

He didn't reply immediately, but instead chose to rub his thumb over the side of her hand, still enclosed in his own. Her skin prickled pleasantly at the reciprocated touch. "You don't need me," he said flatly. It was not a question, but a statement meant for clarification. "You have your friends already. I don't understand why... Fuck, why are you nice to me?" 

Bulma couldn't help but laugh. Vegeta flashed his gaze at her, surprised. "You're right, I don't _need_ you," she said, mirth still teasing up the corners of her mouth. "But that doesn't mean I don't _want_ you. Need comes from necessity, but want comes from a choice. I choose to spend time with you, because I know there is more to you than you choose to show, and I like the glimpses of that person that I see. You're funny, and kind, and challenging. I admire your drive and self-control, even if you should let loose once in a while. I enjoy spending time with you."

He listened to her explanation, mouth slightly slack as if he couldn't possibly believe she was talking about him. The innocent wonder that illuminated his expression brought a youthful quality to his features, his brow unfurrowed and his eyes wide and searching, and for a moment she saw in him a distinct similarity to a curious child. "I don't hate being around you, either," he said, and she laughed again. It wasn't the declaration she had been looking for, but perhaps it was a start. "It's been kind of shitty not seeing you the past few days." 

"Yeah, it has," Bulma agreed, nodding her head. "Maybe we can agree that, next time, we'll talk about the issue right away instead of ignoring it for days on end, eh? And instead of acting on impulse, how about you let me decide what’s best for me?" 

Another cool breeze swept through the courtyard as he nodded his head in agreement.“Am I?” he asked after a pause, and had she not been sitting right next to him she wouldn’t have heard his question, so soft was his voice.

“Are you, what?”

“Best for you.”

“I...” She faltered, thrown by the question. The implication of what he was asking was bolder than she had thought him capable, and she felt a small thrill at the recognition of its meaning. “I don’t know yet. But I’d like to try to see, if you’ll let me.”

He nodded, and shifted his attention to their coupled hands as though just fully realizing they existed. Bulma watched as he lifted her hand in his and brought it to his face. His lips ghosted her knuckles, brushing ever so lightly against them teasingly, and his eyes wandered back over to hers. “I will.”

An entire case of butterflies had busted free in her stomach at his touch, and she found it a little difficult to talk while still mitigating the havoc they were wrecking on her insides. Instead she just nodded meekly, and he gifted her with one of his rare smiles. He’d opened his mouth to speak again, when the sound of a slamming door echoed throughout the courtyard.

“VEGETA!”

Bulma winced in surprise at the explosive volume, unintentionally drawing her hand away from Vegeta, whose expression quickly flitted from confusion to anger.

“Fucking asshole,” he grumbled darkly as he struggled to his feet. He leaned over the balcony, his expression shrewd. “Fuck OFF!”

“Heyyyy, there ya' are, buddyyy! C’mon back dowwwwn,” a voice that sounded suspiciously like Raditz’s slurred from below. “’S laaaate!”

“I know that, you fucking moron,” Vegeta snapped back. He paused for a moment, glancing back over at Bulma as though reassessing his words, before saying, “I’ll be right there. Fucking, go back inside! You’re loud as fuck.”

There was some residual giggling and a muffled ‘ooof!’ that could have indicated he’d fallen, before the door slammed again and quiet settled back over the quad.

Vegeta turned to her, looking awkward. “I don’t... It’s late. You should go back to bed,” he said, one of his hands reaching up to cup protectively around the back of his neck. The intimacy of the moment they had shared was broken, and he had returned to his self consciousness after being reminded that a world existed outside of the one they had basked in just moments prior. “I’m sorry.”

Bulma rose to her feet, cursing Raditz for his terrible timing. She shrugged slightly, feigning lightheartedness despite the disappointment weighing heavy in her chest. “It’s okay. I’m glad you came,” she said. It was true; had he not come, they still wouldn’t be talking, and the stress of that arrangement had driven her farther into the ground than she wanted to acknowledge. “Maybe next time you visit it can be at a more reasonable hour, though.”

“I – well, yeah,” he said, turning a little pink again. He put his hands in his pocket, regaining the posture of slumped indifference he usually carried. “I’ll, uh, see you around then? Maybe – tomorrow?”

Surprised, she blinked before smiling broadly at him, encouraged by his forthrightness. Up until now it had been her that had catalyzed any plans. “I would like that.”

“I’ll... I’ll text you,” he offered. The anxiety in his tone and posture radiated insecurity, so she reached out to squeeze his forearm assuredly. She knew it would take time for him to gain any level of ease or comfort in reaching out to her of his own accord, and wanted to encourage the timid attempts he made until then.

“I’ll talk to you then,” she said, and gave him one last smile before turning and disappearing back into her dorm.

Upon entrance, she was unsurprised to see Eighteen sitting at their tiny kitchen table, licking what looked to be peanut butter from a spoon. She glanced over at Bulma and rolled her eyes exaggeratedly. “God, that took _forever_. What the hell happened?”

Bulma nudged the door behind her shut with her butt, before pressing her back to it as well and sliding down it to the floor. She exhaled slowly, unable to keep a cheeky grin from her face. Although the conversation had seemed rather innocent at face value, there had been a lot of implied meaning throughout, which led her to believe they might have finally come to an understanding. “I... I think he agreed to date me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"And I want you_   
>  _Oh my god, I want you_   
>  _To see me in this state_   
>  _And I want you_   
>  _Fill your sleep and haunt you_   
>  _To see the mess you've made"_
> 
> So this chapter was a completed draft almost immediately after the previous one was posted, but I've spent the past two weeks editing and re-writing because I am a controlling psycho myself and am never happy. Yay!
> 
> Next chapter might take a while. Work has been incredibly demanding and stressful, and I'm finding it difficult to summon any brain power when I get home in the evening to dedicate to writing. It will come, though, I promise! Just might not be on my usual every-two-weeks schedule.
> 
> Again, many thanks for all the comments, kudos, and encouragement after the last chapter! Your kind words make my days!


	8. A First

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I lied. Work has been (thankfully) lighter this week as the holidays approach, and I was able to get in some writing time during the day that may or may not have been on company time. Whoops!  
> I think this is my longest chapter yet, and as you will see it could definitely have gone longer, but I didn't want it to get too unwieldy. There are some candid fluff moments in here that I probably could've cut, but I think it helps with character building some. Lends some credibility to their relationships and whatnot, ya know?
> 
> ANYWAY. Hope you enjoy, and thanks SO MUCH for reading!

When Vegeta awoke on Friday morning, only a handful of hours after his conversation with Bulma, he realized with a jolt that it was the first time in days he didn't feel an awful, nausea inducing stress in the pit of his stomach. He had a monster of a headache, probably from the ill-advised drinking he'd allowed Raditz to talk him into, but there was no inexplicable anger, no desire to lock himself away from the rest of the world and ignore whatever bland day awaited him. He felt lighter, and oddly content, and he knew damn well why.

He knew without a doubt he was past the point of turning back.

When he had left the community center after coming to blows with one of Bulma’s friends - the pathetic performance he'd been able to give during that tussle was a completely different issue that had simultaneously been plaguing him - he had fully intended that to be the end of his blooming relationship with the woman. They had had a decent go of it - she was cute, and funny, and he had enjoyed the few outings they had shared - but there was very obviously no future for that endeavor, and so it seemed in the best interest of time to cut that particular kite loose. She surely hated his guts by that point anyway, after the ridiculous debacle he'd caused in the middle of her fun night out. Had the roles been reversed, he couldn’t say he would feel particularly forgiving.

Thus, Vegeta had gone home that evening (after a not-so-quick pit stop at the local ER for four stitches to his eyebrow) with no further intention to reach out to her or to reciprocate communication in any way. He was sure she would try - texts, phone calls, possible visits to his damn apartment - but he was resolute in his decision and had steeled himself against what he knew would be some very probing questions from her. He had fully expected that, knowing that she was curious and stubborn by nature. His genius solution had been to just ignore it.

What he hadn't expected, though, was that there would be any reticence on his end. Logically, his brain had accepted that this course of action was easiest: he only had a few months before he had to fully commit to his military engagement, and forging unnecessary bonds during that time would only make his eventual parting that much harder for her, which was a mess he didn't want to deal with. Apparently the rest of his senses didn't get the memo from the reasonable part of his psyche, though, as proven when he woke up the next day feeling miserable.

He couldn't quite place what the issue was, but when he rolled out of bed the morning after his failed fight it was to a dark, angry mood and a bizarre want to not get out of bed at all. This was very much out of the ordinary; generally, falling back on his routine was what kept him in line and lent some semblance of comfort to him during trying times. He thrived on getting up early, getting his gym gear together, and hitting the weights for a solitary few hours before he had to face the rest of society. It calmed him and gave him purpose, provided some control to him in a life where he felt most of the decisions were made for him, without his consent. School, military, social standing? All handed to him by his father, all orders he had been given and been expected to comply with. His physique, though, and his increasing dedication to martial arts? That had all been  _him_.

An innate feeling of reticence, then, in the face of what was arguably the only enjoyable part of his day? Positively aberrant. He had firmly stomped on that unwillingness and forced himself to follow through with his routine nonetheless. Getting back into the normal swing of things was the best thing he could do for himself. Now that the woman was out of the equation, there would be no interruptions, however pleasant they may have been, to what was normally a very regimented schedule. It would be best to re-conform as soon as possible, gut feelings be damned.

The issue, Vegeta realized as the day progressed, was that the goddamn feeling  _wouldn't go away_ , and it was clouding his usually sharp perception. He was embarrassed - and mildly mortified - to admit that he was finding traces of the woman in everything he did. There was a coffee cup littering the ground on his way to the gym whose logo was from the same place she had taken him; some moron on his way across campus was wearing a t-shirt with a red bow tie graphic on the front; he had to pass by the science building on his way to the cafeteria, and had idled awkwardly as he passed, wondering if she was inside. Even martial arts reminded him of her now, after she'd forced him to sit through those terrible movies, which meant he spent the entirety of practice that evening trying to suppress the dogged image of her face cutely distorted in laughter. It was killing him.

Vegeta had gone home, taken a frigid shower - both to calm his mind and his body, as he had gotten a little  _too_  imaginative on his walk home while lost in recent memories of her Halloween outfit - and allowed himself an early bedtime. Surely this had merely been an off day, something he could attribute to residual stress from the whole scandalous scenario. The next day would be Monday, a true return to the norm with an uptake in classes, and he would be too busy to bother thinking about her at all. Right?

It had been worse. He again forced himself to go to the gym, but it was as though the crushing weight of this unusual feeling had doubled overnight, made worse by the realization that he would have to sit next to her during their Spanish class that afternoon. How could he possibly face her, knowing she would be full of questions, when he was struggling to maintain his resolve as it was? It was proving troublingly difficult not to fold and text her or just go to her apartment, so the sudden understanding that he would have to sit  _right next to her_  for over an hour and still hold strong in his decision to cut ties made his palms sweat.

He spent the majority of his day mulling over how best to tackle this obstacle before giving way to cowardice and deciding to deal with it by not dealing with it at all. Instead of leaving the gym at his usual hour to make it to the lib arts building on time, he stayed on well into the evening, until he was too physically exhausted to continue, before dragging himself across campus, back to his dorm.

The rest of his week had dragged by equally as miserably. Try as he might, he could not take his mind from Saturday's events and the horrible anxiety he'd felt the first day grew more inescapable as the hours slid past. He recognized that the sensation stemmed from an amalgamation of a few different emotions, all equally crappy: regret, longing, embarrassment, and above all, guilt. His conscience had undoubtedly caught up to him – which was an anomaly in and of itself - and he felt like shit knowing that he had done something stupid to intentionally hurt Bulma when she had really done nothing to deserve it. Anger at Bulma and the whole scenario quickly morphed into self-deprecation, as the more he thought about it, the more it seemed that the offense he'd gotten so worked up over had almost undeniably been a fabrication of his own paranoid subconscious. He was so desperate to protect himself from any kind of emotional vulnerability that he had sabotaged the only good thing to happen to him in years. He was an  _idiot_.

When her texts had started to come in, Vegeta was already  _almost_  decided in that he was going to apologize to her - he just didn't know how. He couldn't remember a single occurrence in recent memory in which he'd found himself faced with giving a sincere apology to anything, and he didn't want to fuck it up. He still didn't know exactly how she felt - did she hate him? Was she still upset? Would she even  _want_  to forgive him? - and was hesitant to begin that kind of conversation without substantial mental preparation beforehand.

So, he had avoided answering her message. And the next one. And the next three after that. It, again, felt cowardly, but what if he apologized and she didn't feel like it was good enough? Or, worse, what if she asked question he didn't know how to answer? He'd been rash and childish, and knew whatever he said to her to make up for that colossal lapse in judgment had to be damn good. Hopefully she would also be willing to forgive his lack of communication in light of that. He just need some time to gather his thoughts, he told himself as he deleted another unread message. Once he could work up the nerve, he would make it up to her.

When Thursday rolled around, he felt prepared enough to go to their language class, his tentative plan being that when she arrived to the class and bombed him with her trademark gabbering, he would agree to meet afterwards to talk. Then, after surviving the hour and a half of close proximity, he would take her somewhere private where he could explain that he was sorry, at which point she would hopefully accept said apology, and they could move on with their damn lives. He still wasn't sure what this whole fiasco would mean for their relationship at large, but given that he hadn't even made it through to an "I'm sorry", he decided to cross that larger, more troublesome bridge when he came to it.

When she didn't come to class, then, Vegeta was left a bit panicked, and his overactive paranoia was immediately sent into overdrive. Had she ever missed a class? He couldn't recall her chair ever being vacant, and she didn't seem like the kind of person to just blow off a lecture. Had she not come as a way to spite him? Then again, he hadn't come on Monday; maybe she hadn't been present then, either, and had just dumped the class altogether. Had he fucked up that badly? Apparently. Surely  _this_  was proof that she hated his guts and wanted nothing to do with him. He had probably exacerbated the problem by ignoring her texts, too. She probably couldn't stand the thought of being near him, even for the duration of the class. He couldn't blame her. He could barely stand himself as it was.

His mood had plummeted after that, to the point where he told another classmate to fuck off when asked to borrow a pen, and ended up leaving thirty minutes early under the pretense of martial arts practice. He spent the rest of his afternoon beating the ever loving shit out of a punching bag and then sparring with Kakarot - the only member of the team who was brave enough to deal with him, given his dangerous mood - before submitting himself to another frigid shower in the locker room.

When he emerged, surly and restless still, he decided he did not want to go back to his dorm to sit in the dark all by himself to brood over what a fuck-up he was, but instead would go over to bother Raditz and Nappa at their apartment. If nothing else, they would at least serve as some form of distraction from the melee of destructive thoughts bouncing around his skill.

In that aspect, at least, they came through. He hadn't been in their dingy dorm for longer than fifteen minutes before Raditz was insisting they start drinking - "It's THIRSTY THURSDAY, man! C'mon!" - and as Vegeta was feeling too nihilistic to bother arguing, he had ceded easily. Time had skipped by easily after that, and before he realized it he was half a bottom of rum and several beers into what would prove to be a terrible hangover the following day.

Around the time of this realization he had also gotten curious as to the hour, and had dug around in the bottom of his gym bag for his phone, which had been sitting forgotten since before Spanish. When he pulled it out, blinking blearily at the screen, he had been informed it was nearly two in the morning, and also that Bulma had sent him a text nearly twelve hours previously that, until that point, had gone unnoticed.

In his half drunken state it had taken little encouragement for him to abandon the other two morons in favor of seeking out Bulma. If she still cared enough to bother messaging him, wishing him well, then there was certainly still a chance she didn't loath him. At the very least, his liquor-bolstered confidence wanted to find out.

The conversation had not gone as smoothly as he had imagined it in his mind; he had managed not to vomit down the front of his shirt, despite the way his stomach twisted and turned when she was standing right in front of him, but he had not been very articulate, and was surprised to find that he physically could not explain to her how he felt or why he'd acted like such a douche. His mind emptied itself of all pre-rehearsed dialogue as soon as she asked him a simple question, and he'd been forced to stumble his way through, hoping desperately she would forgive him all the same.

In the end, it had worked out, which was the main contributor to his good humor upon waking on Friday. He rolled over, not even bothered that the terrible nagging anxiety in the back of his mind had been replaced with a booze-induced migraine, and grappled for his phone on the nearby bedside table. He had no messages from Bulma - not that he had expected to, as she had probably not gotten any sleep thanks to him - but found himself scrolling through their past dialogue all the same. Despite the knowledge that they had a few months together at best, he was tired of arguing with himself over whether spending time with her was a good choice or not. He wasn’t sure where they stood officially, but did that matter so much? He didn't really want a relationship, per se, he just knew he liked being around the woman, as perplexing and occasionally frustrating as she could be. For now he was happy to play it by ear, to do as he pleased with the time he had and deal with the consequences when the time came.

Vegeta stared at his phone, his thumbs tapping idly on either side of the screen, trying to decide whether he should text her or not. He had told her before leaving that he would reach out to her today, to maybe set up some tentative plans; however, he couldn't think of what to say to her that didn't sound contrite or insincere, or too short. This was the real root of his issue with voicing his feelings: he never felt that words could do them justice, and that they paled in comparison to actions. Why waste time with words when he could prove his point with a physical manifestation of whatever he was feeling? It didn't make sense to him.

He mulled over his options for another few moments, irritated with his inability to string together a few simple words, before sending her three solitary letters.

_xxx_

That would at least be enough for her to reciprocate some kind of conversation. Content with himself, he slid out from under his comforter and began prepping for his morning workout.

*****

Bulma’s alarm sounded far before she was ready to get up, but she slammed the button to turn it off all the same, and pried herself from the warm tangle of her bedsheets. She had an eight AM lecture to get to, and after missing her entire day's classes yesterday did not feel it would be appropriate to skip again. She was a little ashamed to admit that the pre-dawn visit she'd received had done wonders for her overall state of mind, other than feeling a little sleepy, and so she wasn't too bothered with the prospect of sitting in class until noon.

She grabbed her phone and wandered down the hall to the kitchen in search of something to eat. As usual, their pantry was sorely lacking in anything of substantial nutritional value, but it was too late for her to get breakfast at the campus cafeteria and still make it to class on time. Frozen breakfast burrito it was, then.

She tossed the iced over burrito into the microwave unceremoniously and leaned up against the counter to scroll through her phone as it began to rotate slowly on the hotplate.

She had a message from Chi Chi with a compilation of photos showing Gohan in his school uniform, his hair cut short and plastered to his head with what had to have been a copious amount of gel. He grinned up at the camera, looking pleased with himself, his lunch bag clutched in one hand. Bulma smile and sent a quick reply.

_Handsome as always! [heart][heart]_

The other message in her inbox was from Vegeta. She opened it, curious as to what he had to say to her when they had literally spoken mere hours earlier, only to find a text containing nothing more than a series of x’s. She stared at it, confused. Normally she would have taken an ‘x’ to signify a kiss in typical ‘xoxo’ fashion, but this was  _Vegeta_ , and she knew damn well that wasn’t his intent. Maybe he had sent it to her accidentally? Maybe he was still drunk. She smirked.

_Good morning to you, too. [tongue out] Hungover at all?_

The microwave dinged, bringing her attention back to her breakfast, and she abandoned her phone in favor of silencing her growling stomach. She grabbed the steaming plate from the microwave, sat down at the table, and managed to take a single, hesitant bite of her food before her phone vibrated again. Still chewing, she picked it up.

 _Headache, little nauseous. No big deal_.

She rolled her eyes and began typing a reply.

_I bet your sorry ass is still in bed._

His next reply was slower, but came all the same about five minutes later. It wasn’t a text this time, but a picture. It was a mirror shot of him in the gym, wearing a pair of black shorts and a long sleeve top that, judging by the way it clung to his body, was made of lycra or spandex. He was wearing a pair of headphones as well, his face in a signature expression of cool indifference. As she ogled the photo, a second message arrived.

_Do I look like I’m still in bed?_

Bulma suppressed a laugh, her mouth still full of burrito. What a pompous ass he was. She paused, trying to decide how best to irk him before responding.

_That could be an old picture, for all I know._

They texted back and forth for a several minutes, Bulma's burrito half eaten and long forgotten on her plate.

_What would the point of that be?_

_Maybe you want to impress me. Trying to woo me, huh?_

_I have no need to impress you._

_Oh, really? Is it that you don't need to or that you can't?_

_If I hadn't already, we wouldn't be talking._

_Seem pretty sure of yourself, there, pal._

_Am I wrong?_

_I guess we'll have to wait and see. [devil horns]_

As she hit the 'send' button, Bulma glanced at the time and gasped before jumping up from the table. Her class started in twenty minutes and she hadn't even gotten dressed yet. Oh well; she'd just have to skip her shower. Crappy breakfast left behind, she ran down the hall to get ready.

\---

The next few weeks passed by in a flurry of lectures, increasingly complicated homework assignments, and long hours at the lab. As the end of the semester grew ever closer, so did final exams, which meant students and professors alike were buckling down campus-wide in preparation. Bulma's classes, which were already demanding, seemed to fly into overdrive as they edged farther and farther into November, until soon it seemed there wasn't a single hour of the day in which she couldn't be found either at her desk at home, in a classroom, or in a focus room somewhere in the faculty of science building. That is, unless she was with Vegeta.

Bulma had been hopeful that their friendship could be rekindled with little to no residual damage from the Halloween fiasco, and the days following Vegeta's sort-of apology proved that it could. They had quickly fallen back into a comfortable competitive friendliness that suited them well, albeit with the addition of the slightest hint of tension that Bulma was almost sure was somehow sexual in nature, but which she hadn't yet worked up the nerve to test out. She was certain Vegeta was interested in her, if not romantically than at least physically; she had not imagined the tail end of their conversation on her balcony, and knew damn well he had hinted at something that surpassed mere friendship. The issue was that he hadn't yet acted on those thinly veiled insinuations, and she was hesitant to push him past his point of comfort.

Instead, then, she had satisfied herself with frequent visits and outings together: they had gone to a boxing match, which she had enjoyed much more than she'd thought she would; re-visited the nearby coffee shop in an attempt to broaden Vegeta's caffeine horizons; watched several movies, including a number of gorey horror flicks he had insisted on that she'd watched through her fingers; and even gone ice skating, despite Vegeta's vocal displeasure and the accompaniment of his ever present scowl.

Her comfort level around him seemed to grow with every passing day, and although he retained a portion of his rigidity when in public, Bulma thought Vegeta rather enjoyed their time together as well, in his own way. He'd seemed to like explaining the rules and techniques of boxing to her, and even though he had seemingly hated every drink she had pushed his way at the coffee shop he had still been enough of a sport to at least try them. He had even withstood her teasing at the skating rink, though he had been much better at it than he'd let on; he'd grumbled and moaned about participating right up to the point he'd slid onto the ice, at which point she'd watched, transfixed, as he'd glided cleanly around the rink, hands jammed moodily in his pockets, a textbook example of form and agility. 

In fact, so much had she begun to look forward to their pre-planned dates - and this was her own name for their outings, as Vegeta was still yet to formally acknowledge that that was indeed what they were doing - that she was finding it difficult to focus on the copious amount of schoolwork she had to work through whenever she wasn't with him. The time she dedicated to their forays wasn't excessive: maybe a few hours on the weekend, and an evening or two during the week; however, when coupled with the large swaths of time that she spent daydreaming while sat in front of a textbook or in a classroom, she couldn't deny that he was proving to be a rather tricky and time consuming distraction. As such, she'd been pulling a lot of late night study sessions to ensure she could keep on top of it all. 

It had not yet proved to be an actual issue yet, though; there had been one mechatronics assignment she had just plum forgotten about, but had been able to make up by turning it into her professor later that afternoon with no penalty, as well as a VCO quiz she really should have studied a bit harder for, but had still managed to squeeze a low A out of. She brushed these circumstances off casually, telling herself it was due to poor time management exacerbated by her heavy workload, and  _not_ because she had chosen to spend that time on Vegeta's couch, hiding behind the popcorn bowl as he tried to convince her to give the horror movie a chance. Nope, those situations weren't related  _at all_. 

Bulma sighed heavily, tapping her pen idly against her open textbook as she tried to absorb the detailed equations splayed across the page in front of her. It was Tuesday, which meant that she'd only had class until noon; however, as she'd spent the previous evening at Vegeta's martial arts practice and then gone to the cafeteria with him afterwards, not much schoolwork had gotten done, and she had promised herself she would dedicate the entirety of her Tuesday afternoon to catching up. She'd managed to grab the very last open focus room in the engineering hall, and was currently holed up in the small space, surrounded by textbooks. 

Her eyes traveled over to where her cell phone sat near the corner of the table. She was tempted to text Vegeta to see what he was up to, but decided against it; it was past five at that point, which meant he was probably in the sports arena with his team and wouldn't be able to answer anyway. 

He had been a bit bolder in reaching out to her on his own lately, though, so there was always the chance he would send her something when he was done. In fact, on several occasions she had received messages from him, including a few that were identical to the one he'd sent after their late night balcony chat: a string of three x's, with no other explanation. Bulma hadn't yet asked him what it meant exactly, but she suspected it was his way of letting her know he was thinking about her without any of the wordy emotional declarations he so hated. It was inexplicably endearing, in a very Vegeta-esque way, and she was afraid if she brought it up to him he would stop doing it. 

Out of excuses to procrastinate, she yawned widely and turned her attention back to her homework, resigned to yet another late night. 

\---

"Bulma." 

Her eyes sprang open in sudden surprise only to immediately squeeze shut again, agitated by the harsh light. She groaned and turned her face into her elbow.

" _Woman_. Wake up." 

Bulma grunted again but shifted towards the voice as recognition began to work its way through her clouded senses. She sat up from the slouched position she had been in, half sprawled over the table, and realized she was still in the small study room. She blinked blearily at the figure standing in the cracked doorway. "Huh?" 

"Thought I'd find you here. You weren't answering my messages," Vegeta said, a hand in the pocket of his jacket. He watched as she stretched and rubbed at her eyes, still regaining complete consciousness, and smirked a little. "Guess I know why now. Here, take this." 

She yawned, squinting at him as he came farther into the room and held out a coffee for her to take. She accepted it, still a little confused. "What time is it?" she asked groggily, her voice slightly hoarse. She cleared her throat. 

"Late. After eleven," he said, leaning up against the table she was sat at. He waited until she had taken a drink of the coffee he'd brought her before scowling a little. "You shouldn't be out here alone, you know. This late, I mean." 

Bulma scoffed, wrapping both her hands around the coffee cup. It was from their usual shop around the corner, and while she was pleased to find that he had remembered her favorite order, she was also a little embarrassed that he'd gone all the way off campus to get it for her. "I always stay out here late. Always have. You're just now finding out about it is all." 

Vegeta's brow furrowed more deeply at this and he frowned. "Yeah, well, you shouldn't," he complained, crossing his arms over his chest as his lips thinned in displeasure. "What if some fucking creep was out here? You're all alone." 

She snorted at that as she took another sip of her latte. "Have you ever heard of an attack on campus? No, never. I'm fine," she said, barely resisting rolling her eyes at his dramatics. He said nothing and, seeing the look on his face, she allowed her tone to soften slightly. "Vegeta, honestly, I appreciate your concern, but you're worried over nothing." 

"I'm  _not_ worried." He paused, looking annoyed by her nonchalant attitude, before adding a grumbled, "Let me walk you home, at least." 

"I'm not done yet," she said, gesturing to the whiteboard on the wall where she had been working. It was covered in equations and calculations which may have looked impressive enough to the untrained eye, but which Bulma knew were unfinished and still full of errors. She eyed them morosely. 

"How long will that take?" He was staring at her again, and although his expression seemed outwardly critical, Bulma knew that was his way of masking the concern he really felt. 

"I don't know. A couple hours, I'd imagine." She sipped on her coffee, observing his grumpy expression. "It'll be fine, Vegeta, really. I'll lock the door when you leave if it makes you feel better." 

He mumbled something unintelligible, looking unconvinced, before, to Bulma's surprise, he opted to take a seat across from her. They sat in loaded silence for several moments, Bulma leafing through a book idly between stolen glances at her rigid company. He bristled somewhere around the fifth time. "What?!" he snapped at her. 

"Just wondering what you're doing," she said with a shrug as she jotted something down in her notebook. She managed another glimpse at his irritated expression and fought a smile. "Since you seem so thrilled to be here, I mean."

Vegeta scoffed. "Isn't it obvious? I'm fucking waiting for you," he huffed as he pulled his phone from his back pocket. He gestured vaguely at the whiteboard where she'd been working. "So stop wasting time and get to work on whatever the hell that mess is." 

Bulma’s lips parted slightly as her forehead wrinkled in confusion. "Why the hell are you waiting? I told you, I'm gonna be a while." 

"I've got nowhere else to be," he answered coolly. He flipped his feet up on the edge of the table and leaned back in his chair, and began to scroll slowly through his phone. "Got a problem with that?" 

It was funny, she thought, that sometimes she couldn't even begin to understand Vegeta's logic, whereas other times she could read him like a book. She stifled a chuckle at his lame excuse and turned back to her homework. "No, I guess not. Just don't distract me, or we'll be here all damn night." 

Given the dull environment, Bulma had thought Vegeta would grow bored after an hour or so and resign himself to leaving without her; in hindsight she should have known he was too stubborn for that. He sat patiently for the next three hours, alternating between browsing the internet on his phone and watching her mull over changes in her calculations. Despite the fact that she was almost positive he didn't understand any of it - and to his credit, it was complicated; half the classmates she had that were supposed to get it often struggled - there was a clear hint of interest on his face as he bore witness to her thinking process, and listened in on the conversations she had with herself as she tried to talk her way through the problems she found. Although he made good on his promise not to distract her and refrained from asking any questions, she found that she quite enjoyed his silent accompaniment. 

It was nearly two thirty in the morning by the time she triumphantly put her dry erase marker down on the table with a snap, but Vegeta looked just as alert as when he'd arrived. "Finished?" he asked casually, his ever present gaze fixed on her yet again. 

She nodded slowly as she made a final adjustment to the notes she'd been taking in her notebook. "Yeeees," she agreed, and snapped her book shut with a smile. "Done. Ready to go now?" 

"Let's go, then." He rose stiffly from his chair, but made no indication that he was bothered by the amount of time she'd taken. As she finished packing up her backpack, he reached over and took it from her with hesitation to sling it over his own shoulder. "Put on your jacket. It's windy." 

"Yes,  _dad_ ," Bulma teased, and to her delight his cheeks tinged a fair shade of pink in response. She shrugged on her coat and turned to the door. "C'mon, let's get outta here." 

They exited the large, empty building together, Bulma chattering animatedly about possible plans for the upcoming weekend despite the late hour. The multi-hour nap she had taken on her engineering textbook had obviously helped with her energy level. 

"So, would you be up to go browse that new art exhibit downtown, or is that too nerdy for you?" she asked as they walked through the large double doors at the far end of the hall. As Vegeta had promised, a strong gust of wind immediately greeted them, sending Bulma's hair flying wildly about her head. “Oh, jeez – I was thinking we could go on Saturday.”

"I can't this weekend," Vegeta said plaintively, yanking Bulma's hood over her head in an attempt to calm the azure storm of her hair. "I have to leave on Friday for an MA tournament out of town."

The smile that had manifested as she graciously pulled the hood tight around her face melted into a frown. "You're going out of town for the whole weekend?" Bulma complained. She felt a distinct pang of disappointment somewhere in the depths of her stomach. "That... sucks. Where to?"

"West City." They had naturally begun to trek across campus towards Bulma's dorm despite never having vocally agreed that that was where they were going. Unsurprisingly, the campus was deserted, the only sign of life being the dim street lamps that littered the common areas they walked through. Despite the frigid temperature and fierce winds, Vegeta looked unperturbed, with the rosy color of his exposed cheeks and ears serving as the only indicator he wasn't completely impervious to the weather. 

Bulma's hopes perked back up at the mention of her hometown. "West City?" she repeated. "I grew up in West City, you know. My parents still live there."

"I know." He eyed her suspiciously, a small sneer curling the edge of his lips, as though already sensing where the conversation was headed. "What about it?"

"Well, I mean, if you don’t mind, I could come along..." She curled her fists into the sleeves of her jacket in an attempt to keep her hands warm and looked at him curiously. “I mean, I really haven’t been home in weeks anyway, so I could just go visit my parents or something... And then, whenever you weren’t busy with the tournament, we could hang out. If you wanted to, of course.”

“So you wouldn’t even watch any of the tournament? Real nice, Briefs. Some friend you are,” Vegeta said, affecting offense in the face of her proposal. “Whatever. I’ll kick the shit out of everyone else whether you’re there or not.”

“I know you will,” she said confidently with a wave of her hand, as though that particular doubt had never once crossed her mind. “That’s not my concern. What I asked was if you  _wanted_  me to go. If you do, of course I’ll be there.” She knew this was a potentially dangerous choice, forcing him to voice whether he valued her presence or not, as it insinuated admitting that he’d assigned her some kind of emotional importance which he hadn’t quite been able to fully articulate yet; however, Bulma was determined that that time would have to come eventually, and she figured he would only manage it by starting with baby steps in the right direction. After all, she sure as hell wasn’t going to subsist on underhanded suggestions that he might, maybe,  _possibly_  be romantically interested in her, for the rest of their relationship – or whatever name they could assign to the weird bonding they were experiencing.

To her surprise, though, Vegeta lifted a shoulder in an unconcerned shrug and nodded. “Fine,” he agreed as another gust of wind ripped through the surrounding area, tousling his already unruly locks. “If that’s what you want, I don’t mind. Come.”

Bulma tried to hide the burst of contentment she felt at this, but failed, and beamed at him. “Oh, great!” she gushed, barely refraining from clapping her hands together in excitement. They were approaching her building now, and had begun the slow ascent up the sloping hill upon which it sat. “I’ll drive up, then, after class on Friday. I’m sure you guys are going in bus or something, but if you want to come with me, you can. It will probably be more comfortable than the bus.”

“I’ll think about it,” he allowed, looking amused at her jubilation. “Not sure I could stand being in such a small space with you for such a long period of time.”

She faux punched his arm, well aware she couldn’t have caused him any harm even had she put her full strength into it, and made a face at him. “Oh, cut it out. We both know that'll be the highlight of your week.”

Vegeta made an indignant noise and rolled his eyes as they approached the crest of the hill. “Yeah, sure.”

\----

Friday came almost too quickly for Bulma's liking, as she had a number of academic ends to tie up before she could go away for the weekend in good conscience. She had resolutely sworn herself to upmost concentration for the remainder of the week in light of the plans she had made with Vegeta, and as such had planned to limit their interaction to text messages and Spanish class in the hope that she would be more productive that way. When she had broached the topic with Vegeta, he had seemed supportive –  _“_ _Whatever, woman. Do what you need to._ _”_  – but had then started popping up all over campus at inconvenient times, making it more difficult than necessary for her to ignore him.

How, for example, was she supposed to work on her industrial design class when as she left her apartment to go to the library, she found Vegeta doing push-ups in the courtyard below? She knew damn well he was doing it to agitate her; who in their right mind would exercise outside in forty-degree weather? It was a cruel test of her resolve, and despite her best attempts to ignore it she later found herself thinking back to the way the muscles in his back tensed and shifted with his movements. 

He also seemed to have made her safety during late nights in the lab his own personal responsibility, as he’d begun inviting himself to her focus room sessions with no offered explanation as to why. Initially she’d been a bit annoyed by it – she wasn’t a child, after all, and had managed to survive three years of lab all-nighters without a single incident – but soon found that his presence really did no harm to her productivity; if anything, his silent companionship was rather comforting, and she would have been lying had she said she wasn’t a tad flattered by his concern.

Still, by the time she got out of bed on Friday, she still had several Spanish assignments to tend to before their class on Monday, and knew damn well she wouldn’t be working on them during her time in West City. She sat on the edge of her bed, contemplating her choices. She could either skip the trip like the good student she knew herself to be, and instead use that time to get up to speed on the various language topics she had been neglecting; or, she could go spend her weekend with her quasi-love interest and pretend like the stress of her pendant assignments didn’t weight heavy on her academic conscience. Either way, it was a tough sell.

Bulma pondered the two equally terrible options for a moment before a third idea began to form in her mind’s eye. She snatched her phone up from her bedside table, knowing full well that Vegeta would already be awake despite the early hour.

_Will you do Spanish work with me when we get back on Sunday?_

Up until this point she had refrained from reaching out to Vegeta for help, feeling like she would be burdening him, but also knowing it would be an opportunity for him to needle her. Despite their ever stronger, slowly growing bond, they were still rather competitive, and she had been hesitant to give him unneeded ammo for his teasing arsenal. Now, though, it seemed she had little say in the matter.

He responded quickly, as had become his norm.

_Only if you_ _’_ _re on your best behavior._

She grinned and responded immediately.

_Deal! [smiley face] [thumbs up]_

And so, nearly six hours later, Bulma was pulling up in front of the Jefferson building in her old Sedan, her own bag already safely stored in the trunk. As she'd expected, Vegeta was as prompt as ever, waiting outside the impressive building in a pair of jeans and a heavy blouson jacket, a duffel bag sat on the ground at his feet. He picked it up and heaved it over his shoulder as she approached. Bulma watched his expression carefully and was unsurprised to see it melt into a grimace as she eased to a complete stop in front of him. She had figured he would be less than thrilled to see who else was coming with them. 

"VEGETA! Hey, buddy!" came Goku's raucous salutation from the back seat as he jammed his arm past Bulma’s head space to wave at him through the window. "Hope you don't mind we crashed your ride!" 

"Goku, cut it out," murmured an uncomfortable Krillin from his spot next to Goku, nudging him in the ribs with an elbow. "Don't bug him any more than necessary. I want to survive this trip." 

Vegeta stood planted to the spot, staring at the car with contempt, as though seriously considering blowing it up instead of getting into it. Bulma leaned over across the passenger seat to address him through the open window. "C'mon, Vegeta, I want to get on the road so we can beat rush hour traffic. Put your bag in the trunk and let's get going." 

"Yeah, climb in! You can get the first turn with the radio if you want," Goku offered in what Bulma imagined he intended to be a persuasive tone. Vegeta looked at her, unamused. 

"Woman..." he growled in a low voice. 

She offered a tentative smile in return. "Pleeeease," she said, hoping she looked just apologetic enough to get his ass in the car. "I'll explain on the way. Let's get going." 

He observed her for another tense moment before huffing childishly and walking around the car to dump his bag brusquely into the trunk with a full thud. A second later he was climbing into the passenger seat, a petulant pout still on his face. 

"Thank you," Bulma said, and reached over the squeeze his knee affectionately. He said nothing, and opted to cross his arms over his chest and stare out the window instead. 

Unfortunately for Vegeta, the ride ended up being longer than expected, as there had been a car accident on the highway that had forced four lanes to merge into one. This added an additional hour to a trip that was normally naught more than two, and despite her best attempts at both keeping Goku quiet and Vegeta calm, she was incredibly relieved when she pulled into the parking lot of the hotel with all three companions still alive and breathing. 

"The other guys should be here already! I'll go find them!" Goku announced excitedly before launching himself from the barely parked vehicle. Bulma was forcefully reminded of a hyperactive golden retriever as she watched him jog across the parking lot. 

"I guess I'll go with him. Make sure he doesn't get lost..." Krillin mumbled to nobody in particular before collecting their things from the trunk and following after his over eager best friend. Bulma watched him approach the front entrance of the establishment before turning to Vegeta, who continued to sit stock still next to her.

"Hey," she said, her voice tentative. She touched his forearm, hoping to disarm whatever residual agitation he was still feeling. "Thanks for keeping your cool. I know Goku can be a little...  _trying_ , sometimes." 

Vegeta harrumphed, rolling his eyes a bit. "That's an understatement," he grumbled. 

"I know, I'm sorry. I would've said no, but I told you, they missed the team bus departure. What was I supposed to do?"

"Make them drive separately. Kakarot has a car." 

"That would just be rude," she said, chastising him with a gentle slap to the arm. He looked at her from the corner of his eyes, a small smirk now playing on his lips. 

"You're lucky I like you, woman," he said, and abruptly unbuckled his seat belt to climb out of the car. "You're too damn nice." 

Bulma feigned an insult expression, watching him head around to the back of the car to open the trunk. "Since when is that a bad thing?" she complained after him. 

He reappeared to lean against the passenger side window a moment later, his bag slung over his left shoulder again. "I have practice till seven. Should I expect you after that?" 

"Maybe. I'll consider it, if I don't have anything else going on," she said childishly, affecting indifference as she pretended to inspect her nails. 

He let loose a short bark of laughter. "Seven it is, then," he said dryly, and gave her a smug look before turning and following the same path the other two had taken, to the main door of the hotel. 

Bulma watched him go, a small grin of her own tugging at her lips. She sighed as he entered the building, an inexplicable feeling of content washing over her, then snuck a peek at the clock on the dashboard to see exactly how far away seven o'clock was. 

*****

"Breigh,  _goddamnit_. Are you even listening to me?" 

Vegeta's face twisted into a badly concealed snarl as he turned to face his coach for what felt like the tenth time that morning. " _Yes_ , sir," he spat, his jaw clenched tight. Why the usually good-natured man had decided to pluck  _his_ nerves specifically today, he had not yet figured out. 

"Then why the  _hell_  are you still pounding the shit out of the poor kid? He's your teammate, not a goddamn adversary," the portly man chided as he waddled over to where they stood. "And  _you_ , Krillin, you need to be more vocal, boy."

His sparring partner dropped his raised fists to clutch at his right side, panting slightly from exertion. "No need, coach. I can take it," he gasped unconvincingly. "That's the only way to get better." 

"No, son, the only way to get better is to receive critiques and advice from those who've recognized your weaknesses, not take ruthless beatings right before a goddamn tournament," Kaio said, stopping in front of the two of them. He sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose for a moment before glaring back at Vegeta. "Vegeta, do you remember the talk we had a few months back, after you left that kid unconscious during that scrimmage match?" 

Vegeta fought an eye roll, and let loose a ragged sigh instead. "Yes," he answered curtly. He didn't see how that had anything to do with him taking advantage of his current partner's inadequate form, but he said nothing, knowing any lip would be poorly received. 

"Then you'll remember what I told you then about recognizing when you've won, and when you're just using excessive force," his coach said, staring at him accusingly. There was a moment of silence during which he glared at Vegeta expectantly, and when he didn't respond, the older man held his hands up. "Well? Do you goddamn remember or not?" 

"Yes,  _sir_ , I do," Vegeta responded, barely containing the venom in his tone. These kinds of preponderous chats were exactly the kind of interactions he hated most, and if not for the fact that the old buffoon was one of the best martial arts trainers in the country, he would have refused to suffer through them. He knew, though, that any bad attitude or refusal to listen to the man's well intended drivel would result in being pulled from the starting lineup of fights later that night, and that was something he didn't want to risk. As such, he held his tongue. 

"Then why, by God, did it look like you were trying to break your teammate's ribs just now?" Kaio snapped back at him. Obviously not expecting an answer, he turned to Krillin. "And you! Don't you learn anything from experience? Time after time, I purposely pair you with Breigh in the hope that you'll learn to think on your feet and stop leaving your right side so goddamn open, and I'm always disappointed. Tell me, now, what could you have done better there? "

Krillin looked down at the ground, an embarrassed expression on his face. "W - well, I'm not sure, coach, I just - he caught me off guard, you see - " 

Kaio cut him off, irritated. "You're not inspiring confidence in me, Krillin, not with those bullshit answers," he said briskly, and instead turned back to Vegeta. "Breigh, use your goddamn words like you're supposed to and tell the boy where he could improve." 

Vegeta snorted. Where to start? "You're limited in natural movement by your short stature, and need to work on elongating your movements and overall flexibility," he said crisply, arms naturally folding over his chest. "Your reaction time needs work, and your offensive game is easy to read. Too textbook, and clean. Also, you need to do some harder weight training. Your brute strength is lacking." 

Krillin's complexion darkened, obviously feeling embarrassed, but to his credit he nodded stiffly. "I'll put in some extra hours at the gym," he mumbled, gaze focused down at the mat again, "and spend more time practicing my attacks with Goku." 

Their coach nodded approvingly before gripping Krillin's shoulder in an almost affectionate gesture. "I know you work hard, boy. Just want to make sure you're working smart, too," he said, nodding. He turned to leave, but pointed an inculpatory finger at Vegeta first. "And you. You know I appreciate your fervor, but for God's sake, treat your teammates like they're actually your teammates, eh?" 

Vegeta grunted, but offered no further comment, and to his relief the old man tottered off without any more criticisms, presumably to watch the other pairs of SCU martial artists practicing around them in preparation for the competition that would be starting in a mere few hours. 

Next to him, Krillin sighed baldly, still holding his side. He reached down to snatch his towel off the ground and mopped at his brow with it. "I'm gonna hit the showers and ice my side," he said carefully, in a brittle tone that grated Vegeta's nerves. Vegeta turned to glare at the shorter man to let him know he'd acknowledged his comment, and it was thankfully enough to send him off without any more self-pitying commentary. 

Vegeta reached down to grab his water bottle as soon as his colleague had left, and took a long drink before wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and gazing around the enormous gymnasium. The tournament was being housed in the opposing team's arena space, which was nestled right in the heart of their university's campus. It was a smaller school than their own, as was the overall sports complex, and the gymnasium itself seemed to serve the purpose of housing sporting events of several different kinds. There were large sets of bleachers on both lateral sides, and though they were currently pushed closed, he supposed they would be pulled open by the time the events started later that afternoon. Currently the arena itself had been dressed appropriately for martial arts, with a wide expanse of mats spread across the center of the floor; but there were also soccer nets pushed off to the far side for what he imagined were indoor soccer tournaments and games, as well as basketball nets on the far ends of each side, though all but one of them was currently pulled up away from the court. He let his attention fan over to the small group of people tossing a ball up at the sole open net across the room, pausing intentionally on a thin, blue haired girl in particular. 

Bulma had come to the gym that morning accompanied by whom he had learned were Kakarot's woman and offspring, and although it was obvious that she was there to support him, she had enough tact not to bother him during prep time and had instead made herself busy entertaining the little boy and chatting with the other woman. He had surprised himself by not getting agitated with her continued presence, as was usually the case when he spent too much time with any one person; on the contrary, he was becoming rather accustomed to her, and looked for her during down moments to ensure she was still close by.

It was a habit he had initially found a little worrying, and then shoved to the back of his mind with the other growing concerns he had in regards to his relationship with her that he was, for the time being, opting to just ignore. 

He watched as the messy haired child, far too close in appearance to Kakarot for his liking, picked up the basketball, only to have Bulma then pick him up in attempt to get close enough to the basket for him to toss it in. He failed, but a spectator would have never known it, from the joyous way they giggled and ran after the ball again. Again, his eyes lingered on Bulma, on the cute little shorts she had chosen to wear that put so many of her lovely features on display, before he ripped his attention away and scrambled to refocus on the task immediately at hand: the tournament. 

He had done his best for the past few weeks to concentrate solely on the quickly approaching competition and had, for the most part, been successful; while he had been spending more time with the woman, it was during free time he would have otherwise spent either alone or with Raditz and Nappa, and thus his training schedule had been, on the whole, unaffected. 

The past twenty-four hours, however, when he should have doubled down on gym time and gotten into an appropriate head space for real competitive combat? Not so much. In retrospect, he doubted the logic in agreeing to let the woman tag along for the weekend, but it was too late for regret at this point.

After practice the night before he had stayed up far later than was advisable with Bulma, who had taken him to a nearby neighborhood that was prematurely decorated in Christmas garb. They had sat on a park bench for much longer than he'd thought, chatting and sipping on the ridiculous coffees she loved so much, and he'd enjoyed himself enough that he'd completely lost track of time. He'd recently found it deceptively easy to do that; to intend to spend only thirty minutes or so with her, only to be dragged in by her charm and disarming blue eyes to a separate plane of existence where nothing existed but the two of them and whatever innocuous topic they were talking about, only to realize afterwards that  _hours_ had passed them by.   
He'd sat with her in the dark, surrounded by houses decorated gayly in twinkling lights, and wished he could snap his fingers to erase everyone within a five block radius away just so he could be alone with her. She had that effect on him, and the worst part of it all was that the more time he spent with her, the less reticence he experienced when succumbing to the pull he felt whenever she was around. 

Needless to say, by the time he had snuck back into the hotel afterwards it was late enough that he had only managed to secure himself a handful of hours of sleep before his alarm started blaring in his ear. 

That morning, then, as he meandered down to the hotel gym for a warm-up before the rest of the team managed to pull themselves from bed, he had sworn to himself he would readjust his priorities, at least for the day. His success in the tournament rankings didn't technically mean anything; even if he did do poorly enough over a sustained amount of time to lose his athletic scholarship, his grades were good enough to keep him enrolled, and he knew his father would pay out of pocket if forced. No, the reason he wanted to do well was for his own pride and satisfaction. He had dedicated too much time and effort into molding a craft that was all his own just to let it fall to the wayside as soon as a pretty girl started paying him some attention. He needed to focus.

Except.  _Except_. It was damn hard to concentrate when the focus of the other fifty percent of his time was dancing around at the other end of the gymnasium in shorts that looked like they'd come from the children's rack at the local mall. 

He breathed evenly through his nose and snatched his phone off the floor to check the time. It was nearing ten in the morning, which meant he still had a handful of hours to eat something light and grab a shower. He let his eyes flick one last time over to Bulma as she cheered in encouragement of Kakarot's brat, before he took another drink of water from his bottle and turned to head into the locker rooms.

\---

The hours left before the commencement of the competition sped by, and soon Vegeta found himself huddled around his coach with the rest of his team, all of them decked out in the ridiculous orange gis that represented their home school. The bleachers had been pulled down to allow for the crowds to file in, as he'd expected, and had filled rather considerably since he had last been in the space for practice that morning. Unsurprisingly, the vast majority of the spectators wore some shade of green in support of the home team, whose own gis were a dark, emerald color; however, right smack dab in the middle of the verdant sea, he could clearly make out a small group of people in an obnoxious shade of tangerine and smirked, knowing without need for further inspection who it was.

He turned his attention back to Kaio, who was finishing up what he surely meant to be an encouraging pre-match speech, but which Vegeta found to be trite and condescending. "Do your best, boys! Make me proud!" he finished, clapping his hands loudly as a whistle sounded across the arena. The team dispersed, some to sit on the bench that had been designated for their use, and others to stand along the sidelines in support of the first SCU delegate to head out to the mat. Vegeta opted to meander over to the open space behind the bench and lean against the wall to laxly observe what he was sure was going to be a quick fight.

He had gotten back to the gymnasium considerably earlier than his other teammates, explicitly to be able to get eyes on who their competitors would be. Had he been expecting athletes of any kind of impressive caliber, he would have been disappointed, as the group he found sparring brought to mind memories of high school extracurricular groups, laughable in their mediocrity. Even now, examining the same group of unintimidating nobodies from across the expanse of mat covered arena, he wondered if they would give even the most untalented SCU representative any trouble at all. 

As though his mind had been read, an annoyingly familiar voice spoke from somewhere to his left. "What do you think of 'em?"

Vegeta turned his head slightly to confirm that it was indeed Kakarot who had thought it wise to invade his personal space yet again before rolling his eyes and scoffing. "Nothing to think," he offered with a growl. He gestured to his sparring partner from earlier that morning, who was sitting on the bench a few feet away. "Even Baldy has a shot against these flops."

Kakarot grinned easily, his hands on his hips. "Eh, I dunno, Vegeta," he said, surveying their opponents across the way. The first two fighters had already gathered in the middle of the exhibition space, flanked by their coaches, as the ref quickly reviewed the tourney rules with them. "I know a couple of those guys. Don't look like much, true, but they've got some tricks up their sleeves."

Vegeta grunted again, uninterested in continuing the conversation. If Kakarot wanted to worry over nothing, that was his business; that didn't mean, however, that  _he_ wanted to commiserate with him.

Kakarot continued yapping, though, oblivious to his disinterest. "The tall bald one, right there - that's my buddy, Tien. He's not bad. We used to fight together when we were kids, the two of us, with Krillin, and another guy, Yamcha. Yamcha quit fighting to focus on baseball, but I'm sure he's around here somewhere, probably with Chi Chi. Hmmm..." He began looking over the crowd, an unnatural expression of concentration clear on his face. Just as Vegeta was mulling over where he'd heard the name 'Yamcha' before, Kakarot's arm suddenly snapped out to point somewhere vaguely amongst the masses. "Oh, look, there's Yamcha! He's up there, next to Bulma."

 _With Bulma?_  An odd, sixth sense awareness had begun to scuttle up his spine, but his mind was yet to catch up, leaving Vegeta with little more than an overall sense of dread as his eyes snapped away from the fighters in the center circle to scan methodically over the crowd. Eventually, they found the small cluster of orange he had noted earlier, where sat Kakarot's woman and their brat, munching on a snack of some kind, and Bulma directly next to them. 

Her attention was being courted by a familiar looking man with scruffy hair and an impressive facial scar, who must have been the 'Yamcha' Kakarot was referring to. Vegeta stared at the two of them for a moment, the scarred man talking incessantly and Bulma looking bored at best, before his slow to react memory finally caught up with the uneasiness in his gut, and realization slapped him unpleasantly. The recognition left him feeling antsy and vaguely uncomfortable, as though he'd stepped in something wet while wearing socks. He had seen that ugly mug before.

"Yeah, him and Bulma used to date, ya know," Kakarot prattled, unaware of the mental back flips his words were causing Vegeta to endure. He felt his fingers tingle, begging to be closed into fists with which he could silence the unending drivel pouring from Kakarot's trap. He was cognizant on some level that the fight on the mat had begun, but he was suddenly much more concerned with what was going on in the stands. "They were together for a good while. Was reeeeeal awkward when they broke up. Looks like they're gettin' along okay, now, though. Didn't think that would ever happen!"

Vegeta clenched his jaw. He was overcome with the odd sensation that he was trudging through mud up to the waist, dragging his body forwards towards something that was just out of grasp and which he could never catch up to. "Kakarot,  _shut up_ ," he hissed. A familiar, nasty knot had tightened itself in his chest, and as was customary for him in these emotionally foreign situations, he resorted to the feeling that was easiest for him to process when nothing else made sense: violent anger. His forearms flexed as he fought the urge to strike whomever proved closest. 

"Trying to pay attention to the fight, eh? Sorry, buddy. I'll leave you to it, then," Kakarot said jovially, and turned and left just as randomly as he'd arrived, leaving Vegeta to stew in his anxiety.

 _Relax. Don't overreact._ His attention flitted back and forth between the fighters on display in the middle of the room and the pair sitting naught more than a feet hundred feet away, tucked up and away from him in the bleachers. For the moment, there was nothing he could do about it, he told himself as he drummed his fingers against his thigh restlessly. As much as he would have liked to go interrupt whatever was happening up there, to hold his finger to the pulse of the interaction and get a feel for Bulma's mood, he was in the middle of a competition, and couldn't leave his team to go work out some kind of domestic dispute. What did he really know about the relationship between the woman and the scarface, anyway? Not much, aside from the confrontation they'd had at the frat house months ago. It was hardly his place to go barging in, despite whatever he might - or might  _not_ \- be feeling for her.

Said feelings were becoming harder to ignore, though, and these kinds of situations, with their accompanying visceral reactions, helped to highlight that fact for him. Vegeta's first instinct was to go drag the loser away from Bulma, positive she would be nervous or even fearful in his presence; what did that say about his need to look out for her, for the over protectiveness that had become somehow ingrained in him? Thankfully, at the moment she looked just fine, so maybe he was overreacting and she was completely unbothered by the other man's presence.

Vegeta's pulse spiked at that thought. Was that better, or worse? The two had an official romantic history, after all, which was more than what could be said about his own current situation with the woman. This wasn't like the Halloween party, where he'd made an incorrect assumption about the intentions of another man and then made a laughable spectacle of himself; he had  _seen_  a dispute between Bulma and this 'Yamcha',  _heard_  the clown tell her he wasn't over her,  _watched_  as he begged her not to go. For all he knew, the fool could be professing his love to her at that very moment, and Vegeta would be none the wiser.

His gaze shot back over to where they were nestled in the audience, intent on paying closer attention. Kakarot's woman and child were still eating something, chatting amiably, as was the scarred fool, still fighting for Bulma's apparently uninterested attention. He was talking spiritedly, using his hands to illustrate some point he was trying to make, but she was leaning over, her chin resting in her palm, a jaded look on her face. If he was confessing his love, he was doing a terrible job of it, Vegeta decided. The knot in his chest eased slightly. 

A cheer picked up among the crowd, pulling his attention back to the fighters knotted together on the mat. They tussled for another moment when a referee finally intervened, forcing them apart before allowing them to begin throwing punches again. The break in focus from his ruminations served as a momentary respite from the worry, a breath of fresh air as his head broke the surface of the sea of anxiety he'd been swimming in for the past several minutes. He was being ridiculous. If time spent with the woman had taught him anything, it was that he needed to learn not to jump to conclusions and instead feel out a situation before reacting, first impressions be damned. In a gymnasium full of people, she was in no obvious danger, and she certainly didn't look scared; if anything, it was annoyance that painted her features, not fear. He didn't need to be preoccupied with her safety, at least not at the moment.

Even if the scarface  _was_ trying to make a move on her, which was the next worry vying for his attention in the forefront of his mind, it would require reciprocation on Bulma's part to go anywhere. Did Vegeta not trust her? No, of course he did. She had never given him reason not to. Even though they hadn't yet been vocal in expressing their fondness for one another - and, truthfully, he still wasn't convinced that was a milestone he would ever reach - he was confident, based on his interactions with her, that she enjoyed being with him and had no intent to hurt him. That alone should have been enough to assuage his doubts.

Vegeta took a deep, steadying breath, and pointedly turned back to the fight. He knew if he continued to create a scene at every little provocation, Bulma would eventually tire of his incendiary attitude; likewise, if he wanted to give his connection with her any kind of a real chance, he needed to stop vying for an ironclad grip on reigns that were out of his control. She was a  _person_ , and he did not own her; she was entitled to have friends and acquaintances outside of his own circle. What was important, really, was that at the end of day she wouldn't be going back to any of them, but to  _him_.

He did his best to focus on that particular point for the remainder of the first round of matches, and was relieved to find that it actually did make him feel a little better about the whole situation. The scarface could yammer in her ear for as long as he pleased; it was really of no consequence, given that it was Vegeta she would be waiting for at the end of the matches.

With that minor fire temporarily extinguished - or, at best, put on hold to be dealt with fully later that day - he did what he could to re-center his efforts on his upcoming match. He knew nothing about his opposition aside from his name - “Appule” -  and while he was feeling confident in the probability of a victorious outcome, he still wanted to ensure he was fully prepared. He sat on the far end of the bench, away from his teammates, and zeroed in on the details of the successive matches.

His estimation of the opposing team's lackluster abilities had been accurate, for the most part, with one or two glaring exceptions along the way. The tall, broad one with a shaved head that Kakarot had claimed to know was marginally more talented than the rest, and indeed succeeded in felling one of his teammates: a short, squat freshman whose name Vegeta didn't know. There were two more losses for SCU, but he had thought those due more to faults by his careless companions rather than a showing of strength by the other squad. 

Thankfully, the rest of the orange-clad representatives had a better showing, and by the time it was his turn they had a three-win streak going. He meandered out to the middle of the mats where the ref stood next to his opponent, and came to a stiff stop directly across from the other man. Appule was taller than Vegeta, as was usually expected, but seemed rather lanky, and had a smarmy grin on his face that Vegeta generally associated with over-inflated egos. He stared up at the clownish grin on his face, unblinking, and felt a tingly satisfaction knowing he would soon be able to literally punch the smile off his face. The ref's whistle sounded, and Vegeta's mind wiped itself clean.

One of the best parts of martial arts, or physical activity in general, was that it required enough concentration in the moment that he  _literally_ couldn't think about anything else while doing it. No matter how many things he had to stress about, or work on, or deal with later, when Vegeta was at the gym or in a match, one hundred percent of his attention was dedicated to the task at hand. It provided him with a liberty he experienced nowhere else, and was probably the real root of his obsessive devotion: it was an escape from the rest of his shitty life, and all the problems he had to live with.

As the shrill whistled screeched throughout the arena, all of the mounting worries he had been thumbing over for the past several days fell away; no more thoughts of his classes, or his unmanageable family, no more wondering what to do about Bulma, or how to deal with all the stupid emotions she was bringing to his unwilling attention. A carnal, instinctive side of him shoved all of it to the side, allowing for him to instead focus on other things, things that were immediately important. Like how, for example, Appule was generously favoring his left side, leaving his right side wide open; or how, despite his quick defensive reactions, Appule's offense was severely deficient and seemed oddly rehearsed, like he'd memorized the attacks from a video but hadn’t fully thought out how to best implement them. His footwork, too, was lazy, propelling Vegeta to force him into movement, to make him uncomfortable and pull his attention towards something other than Vegeta's own offensive choices. 

The fight spiraled quickly after that, as it became quickly obvious that the man in green was incredibly outmatched. After he stopped trying to find a corner to back him into and realized it would only take a few well-placed punches to end it altogether, Vegeta toyed with the obviously panicking youth for another enjoyable few minutes before sweeping his clumsy feet out from under him and going in for the kill.

The whistle screamed for a second time not much later, declaring Vegeta the obvious victor, to the surprise of no one. His team cheered as he gathered himself easily from the ground and turned to walk back over to his place on the bench, Appule groaning lightly from where he still lay on his back. He accepted the praise from his team with a grunt as they smacked him on the back good-naturedly, and took a seat again as the blood pounding in his ears began to subside.

It was then, as everyday life began to re-establish its dominance in his mind's eye and remind him he had a life outside of hand-to-hand combat, that he realized there was only one person he wanted to celebrate the win with, and it wasn't anyone in an orange gi. He immediately turned and searched the disappointed flocks of green clad audience members, waiting for his eye to catch on a shock of bright blue, before they finally landed on her. 

She was standing, bouncing up and down with her arms in the air, presumably trying to get his attention. Upon realizing he was finally looking her way, her face broke out into an excited smile, and she waved happily. He allowed himself a small smirk of his own, constantly amused by her over enthusiastic reactions to the simplest of things, and raised a hand to acknowledge that he'd seen her. Something affable bubbled in his stomach as he watched her applaud his victory, effectively offering him more support than anyone else had ever bothered to do, and a small voice in the back of his mind wondered quietly why he'd ever wanted anything other than being close to her.

\----

The first round of matches seemed to last an eternity, when it reality it was done by somewhere in the vicinity of two hours. Updated standings were posted on the electronic scoreboard posted on the far wall of the gymnasium, as well as the pairings for the second round. As the referee announced a recess of forty-five minutes Vegeta grazed over the information steadily and did his best to tone out Kakarot, who was talking loudly to his two bald acquaintances somewhere close by. 

The auditorium began to empty slowly as people filtered out into the surrounding hallways in search of bathrooms and food vendors, but Vegeta kept his place on the bench. He didn't eat during competitions (although he would surely have an appetite  _afterwards_ ) which meant the only real reason he would follow his team out into the lobby would be the fraternize... which he didn't do. He preferred to mull over the interactions he'd seen from the other team members to try to gauge what his strategy should be going into the next round. It all around seemed a better and more productive use of his time.

Unfortunately, it seemed Kakarot felt similarly. Things had seemed promising at first, as the two sat in silence among a small smattering of other stragglers from their group, but after only just a few minutes of blessed quiet there was a squeaky exclamation from somewhere nearby and a small orange blur darted past Vegeta's knees in the direction of Kakarot.

"Daddy!"

The child he had seen in the stands threw himself into Kakarot's lap to toss his arms around his neck, prompting a laugh from the larger man. Vegeta suppressed a grimace; to the surprise of probably no one, he was not an enthusiast of children. "Hey, Gohan! Did you see me win?" Kakarot asked the boy pleasantly as he gave him a squeeze in return.

"I did! We were watchin' from the stands - right, mama?" the child said, turning to look behind him, where his mother was slowly approaching. Vegeta would have scowled at the added company and continued interruption of his concentration, if not for the fact that Bulma was also in tow. His annoyance dissipated as she offered a smile meant only for him. 

"Hey, handsome," she greeted jovially, plopping down next to him on the bench as the other woman wandered a bit farther down to where Kakarot was entertaining their spawn. He felt his face warm at her choice of greeting, but grunted in response all the same.

"Hey."

"You did really well the first round. I think yours has been the quickest match so far," she said, winking as she nudged his arm with her elbow. "Good job."

"Tch." He flashed her a critical look. "Did you expect anything less? I'm disappointed in your lack of faith."

"Only you could manage to turn a sincere compliment into an insult." She paired the comment with a laugh, letting him know she was teasing. Her hand brushed his where it rested next to him on the bench, and he wished for a moment that they weren't so surrounded by people. "I'm glad I came this weekend. I like getting to watch you doing, you know,  _your thing_. In your own element. It kind of helps me understand where all that time goes, with all your training." 

"I... well, yeah." He'd meant to agree with her, intended to tell her that he was glad she was there, too, but the words had died on his tongue before he'd gotten a chance, throttled by his insecurity. He changed the subject, wanting to talk about something else that had been nagging at him since he'd spoken with Kakarot earlier. "Where you were sitting, was everything... okay?" Pause. "With your, uh,  _company_?" 

He had been concerned she wouldn't understand his meaning and force him to explain further, but Bulma’s eyes met his as the question escaped his lips before swerving over to the side, where Kakarot and his woman were courting the interest of the alluded to Scarface several feet away. She lifted a shoulder in an unconvincing non-answer. "It was... fine." 

Admittedly, Vegeta wasn't an expert at reading people's emotions - not necessarily because he was bad at it, but because he just usually didn't give a shit - but even he could gather that she wasn't being completely truthful. He narrowed his eyes at her. "Woman," he said gruffly. "You're a terrible liar." 

She chuckled, and some of the anxious tension left her expression. "You're not the first person to tell me that." Her gaze had fallen to her hands where they rested in her lap. She was quiet for a moment before she looked back up at him and smiled. "It was okay. I just don't really want to talk about it, if that's okay. Not right now." 

Somehow this seemed like a worse answer than if she'd told him the fool had tried to cop a feel. At least, given that scenario, he could have been angry; now he had nothing to react to, and was just left with unending worry in his gut. His lips thinned into an unhappy grimace, but he said nothing, not wanting to push her. 

She must have sensed his discontent, as she immediately said, "I'm going to go grab something to drink. Come with me? Just for a few minutes?" 

Normally he would have said no, as he genuinely hated crowds and would have preferred to be left to his thoughts in preparation for the upcoming matches; however, with Bulma gone that would have left him in uncomfortably close vicinity of Kakarot and the Scarface, and he was keen to avoid any interaction with either of them. "Fine. But let's make it quick." 

They meandered out into the lobby, filled to the brim with people chatting, laughing, and snacking on whatever they had bought from the tables set up around the hall. He had slipped on a pair of shoes before leaving the gym but was still wearing his glaring orange gi, and as they walked through the throngs of West City natives he found himself on the receiving end of several disparaging looks.

"Oh, look! Coffee!" Bulma chirped, her eyes on a stand a few feet away. "I'm going to get in line. Do you want anything?"

Vegeta shook his head. "I'll wait here," he said flatly, and sidled into a nook in the wall next to the entrance to the bathroom, crossing his arms, where he could wait for her without being jostled by passerby every fifteen seconds.

The line she had joined moved slowly, and Vegeta found himself apathetically replaying the events from the first round of fighting to try to quell the annoyance he felt at being surrounded by so many people. He was a solitary person by nature - probably thanks to a regimented childhood full of decorum and pomp, where appearances were everything and location swaps were frequent - and when forced into contact with large groups of people, especially for extended amounts of time, he found himself unintentionally sliding into a bad mood.

That was also one of the main reasons he was so surprised by his readiness to be around Bulma, specifically for long periods of time. She seemed to have found some kind of key to his patience and how not to wane on it. He wondered if she had that effect on everyone.

He looked up to find her marginally closer to the front of the line, but blanched, also seeing that she wasn't alone anymore. Scarface had appeared at some point during Vegeta's unfocused reverie and was chatting with her. Her back was to Vegeta, preventing him from seeing her expression, but what he did notice was that her elbow was held lightly in the other man's grasp.

He felt the irritation he'd been trying to quash all day threaten to skyrocket yet again. Bulma's unwillingness to give him a straight answer about her earlier interactions with the oaf had already raised his hackles, but now here he was again, and  _touching_ her? Vegeta's pulse thumped unpleasantly in his neck as he struggled to keep a hold on his temper.

There was no need to make a scene, he knew that. He had already talked himself down from a similar ledge earlier; if he kept reacting so aggressively in the face of any and all conflicts, he knew it would only be a matter of time before Bulma tired of it. No, he needed to try to attack this particular problem from a more diplomatic standpoint. In other words, anything up to and including threatening to murder him, as long as there was no actual physicality involved.

Vegeta watched the interaction from afar, intending to wait until Scarface – what was his actual name? Yoichi? Yasuke? – moved away from Bulma before he attempted to say anything to him. To the best of his abilities, he wanted to ensure she wasn’t involved; not only because he didn’t want to stress her out, but also because he didn’t want to incur her wrath on top of everything else. If there was anything he was sure of, it was that she surely wouldn’t approve of him threatening anyone, as much as they may have deserved it.

Luckily, it only took a few minutes for Bulma to shake off his dogged attention, and when he walked away it was directly in Vegeta's direction, towards the bathroom. He studied the clown as he grew near: he wasn't a tall man, per se, although he  _was_  larger than Vegeta, and was decently athletic in build. He had a casual, oblivious air about him that was inexplicably agitating, like a persistent dog that couldn't imagine why everyone wouldn't want his enormous, drooling head in their laps.

To his enormous surprise, Vegeta’s location seemed to be the very destination of the fool’s trajectory. He caught his eye as he came closer and bobbed his head in salutation, an easy smile on his face.

“Hey man,” Scarface said, slowing to a halt in front of him. He extended his hand as though expecting Vegeta to take it. “We haven’t formally met yet, but I’m Yamcha. You must be Vegeta.”

He stared at the outstretched hand, unmoving. He had no intention of touching that hand, not when the moron had used it to manhandle Bulma mere weeks earlier. Instead, he glared at him, his arms folded firmly across his chest. “I know,” he said flatly.

The other man hesitated before dropping his hand to his side, his smile waning. “Oh,” he said. It was obvious that he was doubting himself now, wondering if this had been a good idea, and Vegeta reveled in the idea that he was even the slightest bit intimidated. He faltered for a moment before continuing stubbornly. “I just wanted to say, no hard feelings. About Bulma, I mean. She’s a great girl, and I just want her to be happy. Take good care of her, eh?”

The stupidity and gall of the statement left Vegeta temporarily speechless. Had he ever met anyone so daft, so completely lacking in self-awareness? He didn’t think so, which was quite a feat, considering he counted Kakarot amongst his acquaintances.  He released a deep breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in an attempt to calm the rioting contents of his stomach. “And who the fuck are _you_? Her father?” he said, unable to mask the mocking sneer he felt crawling across his face.

Scarface blinked, apparently not having expected quite that level of venom in response to what he had thought was an innocuous conversation. “No, man, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about her,” he said, a little defensive now. “We dated for several years. That kind of bond doesn’t just disappear, you know.”

“For your sake, I hope it fucking does.” Vegeta's arms had dropped to his sides now, and despite being literally backed into a wall, he couldn’t help but feel that he had the upper hand. “If I hear you’ve been bothering her again, I’ll cave your fucking skull in.”

Scarface looked as if he’d been slapped across the face. For a moment Vegeta wondered if that would be it, and he would accept defeat without further argument like the weakling he obviously was, but he recovered from the shock fairly quickly, and replaced his dismay with indignation. “Whoa, wait a goddamn minute,” Scarface sputtered, his own tone sharpening to an edge. “Bulma’s a grown person. If she wants some space, she can ask for it _herself_.”

“No need. Consider _this_ your warning,” he retorted. There was movement over the clown’s shoulder that caught his attention, and he realized that Bulma had spotted their altercation. He would have to be quick if he wanted to make himself clear before she intervened. “I mean it. Touch her again and you’ll wish you hadn’t. Let it go.”

“Hey, pal, I think you should - ”

"You're not fucking listening, asshole."

"Oh, fuck  _you_ , buddy - "

“Yamcha, what are you doing?” Bulma had moved quickly across the lobby, probably sensing imminent danger by leaving the two of them unattended. She had a coffee in her hand, but a suspicious scowl on her face. “I thought I told you to leave him alone.”

“Oh, hi, B,” Scarface said, using the nickname with a familiarity that Vegeta immediately hated. “It’s nothing, I was just introducing - ”

“I don’t care what you were doing. I specifically asked you not to start anything,” she said as anger creeped into her voice. She scoffed and shook her head. “You’re fucking  _unbelievable_. You  _never_  listen to anything I say.”

“But B, really - ”

“Could you just leave, please? Like,  _now_. Get lost,” she said, waving her free hand at him. Vegeta had never seen her treat anyone with anything but kindness – well, except for himself when they got into petty arguments, but that felt different somehow. He watched, amused, as the other man scoffed, threw his hands up in the air dramatically, then turned and left without another word.

What Vegeta hadn’t expected, though, was that she would turn to him next. “And  _you_ ,” she said, pointing an accusatory finger at him as soon as the clown had left. Her face was scrunched up cutely in what he knew was annoyance. “Can I talk to you for a minute, in private?”

“Me?” He raised an eyebrow at the venom in her voice, but didn’t argue, and followed without question as she led the way across the lobby and out the front door.

There were far less people congregating outside than inside, undoubtedly due to the difference in temperature; a cold gust of wind greeted them as they stepped outside, and his immediate thought was that Bulma must be freezing, wearing only the t-shirt and shorts she had come to play basketball in. Possibly because of this she opted not to have the conversation she was looking for there, and instead walked across the parking lot to where the large SCU bus sat.

“Where are we going?” he complained as she pushed open the door to the bus and climbed on board.  
 “What, you want to argue in the middle of that crowd? I thought you’d appreciate the privacy.” Given the sharpness of her tone he thought it unwise to further agitate her with more questions, forcing him to sigh in irritation and follow dutifully after her.

The bus was empty, given that all his teammates were currently inside where he was supposed to be, and the only indication it had been used at all were random belongings that had been left behind when they’d arrived from the hotel that morning: a sweatshirt skewed across the back of a seat, a forgotten water bottle nestled in the arm of one of the chairs, and an assorted of empty snack bags that Kakarot had loudly munched through on the drive over.

Bulma walked partly down the aisle between the seats before abruptly stopping and turning around to face him from where he stood at the front of the bus. “Just what do you think you were doing back there?”

He, again, raised a brow at her. “Talking? He came to me, I’ll have you know. I wasn't looking for a fight.” No need to mention the fact that he would have gone looking for it had the moron not walked right into it of his own accord.

“I realize that. That’s not what I mean.” She sighed in agitation and set her coffee down in a nearby cup holder. “Look. I appreciate what you’re trying to do. Really, I do. Your concern is really flattering, but I do not – repeat,  _do not_  – need you to protect me. I’m a grown fucking person and I can take care of myself.”

She had placed her hands firmly on her hips and was glaring at him down the aisle, her tone making it clear this was not up for discussion. He balked at her argument, mildly shocked she was bothered by his inclination to do what he felt was best for her. “Woman, that’s not - ”

“Don’t argue with me. Just acknowledge that you understand first.”

The situation was almost comical to him in its bizarreness, but he imagined she wouldn’t appreciate it if he burst out laughing in the middle of what was an evidently a serious matter. “Fine. Got it.”

"Thank you." She paused, then added, "For respecting that choice, I mean, but also for back there. For... caring. Yamcha is harmless, really, he’s just an idiot. It means a lot that you..." She rubbed at one of her eyes, drifting into silence, and he was forced to remember that he wasn't the only one who had gotten in quite late the night before. She heaved a sigh and let her hand flop to the side. "Vegeta, what is this? What are we doing?" 

He couldn't help but feel this was some kind of trick question. "Standing in a bus?" 

Another haggard sigh followed. "Don't be a smart-ass. It's... you and me, this weird thing we have... You know what I mean." 

"No, I really don't," he said through mounting impatience. He'd tolerated her shortness at first, chalking it up to residual stress from dealing with Scarface, but now her insistence to talk in riddles seemed excessive. "Fucking spit out what you mean instead of going in circles." 

Bulma fell quiet, studying her hands in contemplation of some unknown question, and he briefly wondered, horrified, if she wasn’t going to cry. She looked up after a long stretch, training her blue eyes on his own dark ones, and he immediately felt a change in her demeanor. "Vegeta." Her voice was hushed, and after a tentative second she began to walk down the aisle towards him. "Are you... _attracted_ to me?" 

His skin erupted in goosebumps, both at her question and at the gravity with which she was staring him down. His mouth gaped open stupidly like a fish out of water, the confidence he had felt just seconds before having evaporated and left him unable to form a single coherent word. "I, erh, _uh_ , you -" 

"I am," she said, cutting through his unintelligible babble like a gunshot through smoke. She was quickly approaching where he stood, now little more than an arm's length away. "Attracted to you, I mean. I really like you. " 

Vegeta cleared his throat unnecessarily loudly, gripping the seat closest to him with what had to be enough force to rip the arm clean off. His heartbeat had suddenly become overwhelmingly present; it was all he could hear as it incrementally accelerated:  _bumpbadump badumpbadump_. "Y - you do?" he asked, hating how his voice seemed to squeak like a prepubescent teen. 

She nodded at him, reaching out the graze her fingertips along his forearm as she came to a stop mere inches away. "I thought it was obvious, but if you're not going to act on it, then - well, then I will," she said. His mind was scrambling, frantic, trying to comprehend how the situation had taken a turn for such dangerous waters when he’d thought they were gearing up for an argument. He would've been lying if he said he hadn't imagined this possibility, thought through what he would do if the potential for an added physical aspect to their dynamic became apparent, but now he felt helpless in the face of its sudden appearance.

Did he want her _that_ way? He knew without having to think it through that he did, undeniably. He’d been wanting her for weeks, far before he’d realized he appreciated her personality as much as her body, and if anything, the Halloween costume she’d put on display not even a month before had cemented that desire. More than once he had woken to his alarm only to realize she had been on display in his dreams the night before, wearing far less clothing than she’d ever worn in real life, and on several occasions it had been images of her, bent over a table or leaning over in a v- neck tee shirt, and the promise of what she concealed beneath her clothing that had brought him to climax on his own, after his hand had wandered distractedly past the waistband of his pants.

A timid second comment broke him from his train of thought. "I mean... as long as you _want_ me to."

He realized through the aroused fog that had settled heavily in his mind that he had been silent for several moments, leaving her forward offer hanging awkwardly in midair, and that she had misinterpreted his lack of answer as disinterest. The hand that had been stroking his forearm had stilled, or at least to the best of her ability; her fingertips trembled, ever so slightly.  _She was nervous, too._

The fact that he wasn't alone in his jitters, that she was fighting the same apprehension that he was, emboldened him to retake the reigns of the situation. He stepped forward, fully closing what was left of a gap between them, and reached up to cup her face in his palm. "I do," he murmured, and before he could overthink it or terrify himself with the implications of the decision he was about to make, he leaned forward and carefully touched his lips to hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SORRY IT ENDED THAT WAY. I promise the next chapter will pick up right after. I swear. Also, can I just say FINALLY? Like, really. Phew.
> 
> I will say that parts of this chapter were unabashedly influenced by [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y_Aw2qp8DAw) by Dean Lewis, which I've been listening to on repeat, especially the bit at the end.
> 
>  
> 
> _"She kicks the gutter in tight shorts, basketball courts_  
>  _Watch me, watch her talk to boys_  
>  _I'm known as a right-hand slugger_  
>  _Anybody else wanna touch my lover?"_
> 
>  
> 
> As long as I continue to get some breathing room in my day to day, I'll do my best to update before the new year. Hope you enjoyed this update!


	9. An Agreement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year everyone! Hope you all had a really fabulous holiday season. :) 
> 
> Apologies for the late upload - I know I was due to post last week, but with all the craziness of the holidays (and the fact that I moved three days before Christmas!) my life was a mess, and I had very little time to get this chapter edited.
> 
> Many thanks to the small following of people that have been consistently reading! I appreciate your support so so so much, really. It's your encouraging feedback that persuades me to write when I'm feeling lazy or uninspired. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Vegeta was decidedly  _not_ a novice in the world of sexual advances. He had gone to an all-boys military boarding school, and the topic of girls and what you could do with them was widely discussed from the minute he moved into his dorm at age fourteen. Although there were no girls on campus, there was a sister school around the block from their own that often intermingled during official school events or social hours, and it was from there that he and his classmates often sought out female attention. 

Unsurprisingly, it became something of a competition between classmates - who could go farther with more girls? - and Vegeta, being the almost intolerably competitive person he was, had not been one to get left behind. Kissing or even getting handsy lost its mysterious appeal rather quickly, and by the time he was a sophomore he had graduated from clumsy fumbling under a girl's shirt to getting a blowjob in a bathroom stall during the co-ed winter formal. Class or prudence had been forgotten and lost in the wild excitement of youthful experimentation, and really, for a cocky teenage boy who liked pushing boundaries, the less discretion they exercised the more provocative (and thus worthwhile) the act seemed. 

Actual intercourse had only been a few steps past that, and Vegeta had soon found himself spending many a weekend evening looking for a quiet place for a half drunken quickie while whatever girl he'd deemed tolerable for the night palmed his erection through the front of his pants. He could still  _sort of_  remember several bizarre locations he'd found himself in just for the sake of getting laid: the back office of the mess hall kitchen, which someone had been unwise enough to leave unlocked; a solitary corner of an unfrequented section of the library; a gym locker room during a basketball game he'd been particularly uninterested in; the list went on.

Part of the appeal of those interactions, though, had been the lack of commitment to them, and the fact that he could get what he wanted from them without any unpleasant secondary backlash. There were no messy emotional ties to those acts, which meant he could take them for what they were at face value: a way to pass the time, a release, something fun. Despite his frequent physical encounters with girls, he hadn't had a single romantic experience throughout high school or college, and he liked the freedom provided to him by his single status: he made a point to never see the same girl twice, which allowed him a variety that kept things constantly interesting and exciting. Anyway, what was the point of getting involved in a relationship? A girlfriend just seemed to be another person to report to and receive demands from. He had never been one to even entertain many friendships, and those he did have he was careful to hold at arm's length; being romantically involved was entirely out of the question. 

Now, though, all those cautious details and careful limits he had put into place had been unceremoniously tossed out a bus window. He had jumped the gun and stepped right over that invisible boundary he and Bulma had been teasing for the past couple months; the one that had firmly separated them, as platonic friends, from the dangerous, rocky waters that constituted physical intimacy. As Bulma’s lips responded slowly to his own advances, his brain jumped into a paranoid frenzy, but instead of worrying about larger problems this interaction might bring about - what did this mean for them in the long run? What did it say about him, and what he wanted? - the concern immediately present in his mind was much more shallow. 

Was he a good kisser? He'd never really asked for feedback from his previous flings to know or get better, having always been concerned with his own pleasure above everything else. Whether he was actually  _good_ at foreplay or sex had never mattered, honestly, until now, when he was double guessing every move he made, terrified of making a mistake and scaring her off - or worse, that she would realize he had no idea how to meet her needs and  _make fun of him_.

What became immediatelyapparent, though, was that  _Bulma_ was a good kisser. Undoubtedly so, in fact. Her lips were hesitant at first, cautiously testing the reciprocation of his interest, but she wasted no time in progressing to something bolder; after a few seconds he was surprised to feel her tongue tracing the outline of his bottom lip, shyly asking for admittance to the rest of his mouth. He happily obliged and felt his pulse spike as their kisses deepened, her hand closing around his forearm as though needing something to anchor her to the ground. As he had been the one to initiate the actual kiss, he'd been under the impression that he would lead this interaction; however, it became quickly evident that that was most definitely  _not_ the case.  

Bulma's hand found his jaw as her kisses became more urgent and her tongue sent electric sparks down his throat as it made repeated contact with his own, a sensation at odds with the sweet caramel taste from the coffee she had been drinking that overwhelmed his taste buds. She hummed contentedly into his mouth prompting his stomach to begin tumbling in circles, flipping itself inside out, and his mind went from rioting chaos to startlingly empty as she suddenly fisted her hands into the front of his uniform and pulled his body flush with her own. He knew the evidence of his growing excitement had to be easily detectable through the relatively thin fabric of his gi, especially when she was pushed up against him so enthusiastically; he felt no reticence on her side, though, and appropriately tossed caution to the wind. 

In retrospect, Vegeta thought, maybe this had been a long time coming. He had been very careful during the past several weeks to crush the lustful urges that had bubbled in his gut whenever he was around her, sure that his feelings would either be unrequited or just complicate an already delicate dynamic. Apparently, as proven by the way she pushed him up eagerly against a nearby seat, he hadn't been the only one harboring lascivious impulses, and he had just been too damn oblivious to realize it. That also explained why, now that they had finally stopped dancing in circles and just  _gone_ for it, everything was going from zero to sixty so abruptly, and why his usual habit of over thinking seemed to have temporarily disappeared into thin air. 

He hadn't realized just how much he had  _wanted_ this, though, not until now, until it had been made a warm, panting reality, crushed up against him. This was very much  _not_ like what his prior experiences had been; there was something different, something special in the way Bulma's mouth worked against his, the way her hands grazed against his skin, the excitement he could feel pulsing from his heart out into the rest of his body. He didn't just want  _this_ , this intimacy - he wanted  _her_.

Slowly, experimentally, he allowed his own hands to begin exploring her body, to travel down the slope of her shoulders, pausing for just a moment at the small of her back before continuing down the delicate curve of her ass. He palmed it and gave a gentle squeeze, enjoying the way she felt in his hands - a sensation he had pondered a handful of times in the solitude of his bedroom before violently steering his thoughts back to the safe zone - before deciding it was time he snatched back control of the exchange. He tightened his hold on her backside and hoisted her into his arms, allowing the majority of her weight to rest easily against his pelvis.

To his content, her only reaction was a surprised squeak into their still locked lips before wrapping her legs around his waist almost instinctively, her hands then finding their way to his neck so she could steady herself. She traced the edge of his jaw with one of her fingers as she pulled away to place a light kiss in the corner of his lips, and goosebumps sprouted along his arms in response.

"Do you have any idea how long I've wanted to do this?" she asked quietly against his mouth, a shy smile pulling up one side of her mouth. Her face was flushed a delicate pink and her speech was breathy, and her obvious excitement only emboldened him further. 

"Since the day you first saw me, I'd imagine," he answered, only half kidding but still satisfied with the amused roll of the eyes his response elicited. He pecked her lips again, still so close to his own, before nipping the bottom one gently. "No more talking."

She giggled but complied, allowing her tongue to seek out his own once more. After multiple increasingly daring kisses she began to move, gently at first, holding her weight against his shoulders to slowly lift her hips and ride against his own, before resting back against his arms. It took several moments of this for Vegeta to realize that she had  _definitely_ felt his erection, and was intentionally grinding against it to gauge his reaction. 

"Bulma," he managed between desperate, breathless kisses as she rubbed up against him, prompting a thrill of pleasure to shoot through his lower abdomen. He could feel a distinct heat crawling up his neck, a mix of embarrassment and salacious enjoyment. "You're - I'm -  _fuck_ , stop that!" 

"I thought we agreed on no more talking?" she purred into his ear, sending a shiver scuttling down his spine. She took his earlobe between her teeth, prompting an embarrassing noise to escape from his lips, and arched her back so her pelvis again brushed up against the length of his hard-on. 

Had he not been so overwhelmed with pleasure, he may have had the good sense to put a stop to her forward advances, humiliated by the fact that she could get a rise out of him so easily; as it was, though, he was quickly losing himself in the smell of her, the feeling of her lithe weight pressed against him, the way she tasted - falling further and further down the rabbit hole of this newfound intimacy, with no chance to pump the breaks and come up for air. His grip on her backside tightened as her lips moved down his jawline and the hot, damp presence of her mouth made itself evident in the space behind his ear. 

Vegeta slumped into the seat he'd been pressed up against, allowing Bulma to straddle him from above, and chose to ignore the obvious fact that, despite his best efforts to ensure the opposite, he was absolutely at her mercy. She looked painfully pretty sat above him, her hair tucked behind her ear and her chest rising in time with her labored breathing, and he struggled against the urge to slide his hands up her shirt and explore what lay beyond the edges of his imagination's interpretation of her body. Would that be too much too soon? He had a feeling she wouldn't mind, but all the same something slowed his hand as it sidled up her thigh.

He was confusingly caught between an inexorable need to have all of her at once and a want to savor more slowly the delicate excitement of such a long sought after first. He knew this was a moment he would replay in his memory again and again, regardless of where his relationship with Bulma ended up, and he didn't want to overlook any detail due to sophomoric over-eagerness. He let his eyes flutter shut as she bent down to kiss him again, ardently, while pulling one of his hands up to rest firmly on her hip.

So lost in his satisfaction, he didn't hear the bus door push open just a few feet away, and it wasn't until Bulma had frozen in their embrace that he realized anything was wrong at all. She pulled her hungry lips away from his own, prompting a barely contained moan of disappointment from him, and looked backwards over her shoulder as a familiar voice sounded from the door. 

"Vegeta? You there?" It was unmistakably the short bald one, the one he'd been sparring with earlier, and his annoyance at the interruption spasmed over his face in the form of as scowl as he recognized the voice. 

For a hopeful split second, Vegeta wondered if the fool would even bother coming fully onto the bus as long as they remained quiet, thinking no one was there; unfortunately, he was proven wrong not a moment later as the sound of footsteps became audible. 

"Vegeta, the second round already started and Coach is looking for..." Baldy's words faded as his face rounded the partition separating the entrance from the seating area and his eyes immediately landed on the pair of them. 

To Vegeta's amusement, Bulma made no bid to remove herself from her position on his lap, and she instead smiled sweetly and gave her friend a little wave. Although she was fully clothed, the way she was sat facing him, his hands still resting idly on her body, left very little to the imagination insofar as what they had been up to prior to the interruption. "Hi, Krillin." 

Krillin's brows knitted together slightly in confusion as he idled by the driver's seat. "Bulma? What are you... Oh.  _Oh!_  Oh, God,  _fuck_ \- sorry!" He reddened and covered his eyes childishly as his lack witted comprehension of what was happening finally snapped the pieces together. "I didn't mean to - ugh,  _jeez_ , I just wanted to let you know your second match is starting soon and coach wants you back! I'll leave now!" 

He turned without another word and hurried off the bus, flustered and blushing. 

The break in affection had served as a bucket of cold water to Vegeta's enthusiasm, and as Bulma turned back to face him he felt a familiar warmth spreading through his face as doubt ebbed into his thoughts. "I guess you have to go, then, huh?" she said, giving him a disappointed smile. 

He nodded jerkily, all too aware of the remaining evidence of her success in stoking his lust, still stood to full attention underneath her lap. "Uh, yeah, I should."

She stood clumsily from his lap, sliding into the aisle again, and adjusted her shorts. Vegeta sat up straight, trying his best to adjust himself as discretely as possible before deciding to just rest his hands in his lap with feigned indifference. It seemed stupid to dissimulate when she had been grinding against the bulging result of his gusto just minutes earlier, but self-consciousness had begun to creep back in on the periphery of his mind, and he couldn't help but second guess any and all decisions made while under the influence of endorphins. 

Bulma's voice brought him back to the present. "So I guess I'll... I'll head in first, then?" she offered tentatively, looking at him questioningly as he failed to get up from his seat.

"I... yeah, you go ahead. I just.. I need a second," he murmured, avoiding her eyes as his embarrassment deepened the blush now clear on his cheeks. 

Bulma was much quicker to catch his meaning than her bald friend had been. " _Oh!_  Oh, of course. Sorry! I'll just see you in a bit, then." If not for his attention being preoccupied by his physical predicament, he would have admonished her for giggling at his discomfort as she promptly exited the bus.

Vegeta sighed raggedly as soon as she was gone, leaning over his knees to press his palms against his eyes. His thoughts were still a mess, frazzled from the intensity of what the hell  _that_ had been, but he pushed against the incoming wave of self-deprecation and doubt, knowing he had other more pressing problems to focus on for the time being; namely, the tournament. Bulma wasn't going anywhere, and whatever they had just done was already done - he could deal with the repercussions of that predicament after his fight.

He gave himself a few moments to recuperate, breathing evenly and focusing on a particularly unattractive memory (namely, a naked Raditz passed out on the living room floor of their frat house after an induction event from the beginning of the semester) before allowing himself to step back out into the cold weather to return to the gymnasium.

*****

Bulma was happy.

No, happy wasn't the right word. Happy didn't adequately describe the somersaults her stomach was doing, the rush of emotion that welled in her chest, the way she couldn't stop grinning like an idiot. Ecstatic? Overjoyed? Jubilant? Fucking  _over the moon_? Words didn't seem to do the feeling justice.

She climbed back up into the crowded bleachers, zeroing in on the pair of orange-clad spectators halfway down the row that she knew to be her friend and her son and excused herself past several dozen other attendees before making herself comfortable in the open spot next to Chi Chi. She was happy to note the glaring absence of Yamcha. 

"Where were you?" her friend asked, appraising her with a wry expression as she took her seat. Gohan peered over at her from around his mother, eyes wide and curious.

Bulma shrugged, nonchalant. "I had to use the bathroom," she lied easily, her beaming smile at odds with her words. Her gaze dropped over to Gohan and she stuck her tongue out at him teasingly. "Did you miss me?"

Chi Chi raised an eyebrow at her, a knowing leer spreading across her face as her son giggled at Bulma's face from beside her. "The bathroom, huh?" she said sardonically, looking over Bulma's shoulder to the entrance of the gymnasium. She gestured with her chin. "I guess he had to use the bathroom for twenty minutes as well, then?"

Bulma turned her head to follow Chi Chi's indication, and saw Vegeta striding back into the arena, his posture stiff. She watched as he rejoined his teammates and his coach immediately waddled over to begin scolding him, presumably over being late. "Huh. That's a weird coincidence," she said, turning back to her with a simper. "You think whatever you'd like, Cheech."

"Bulma Briefs, you’re such a tramp!" Chi Chi squealed in response, loudly enough that a few neighboring audience members turned to see what the hubbub was about. She slapped Bulma on the arm with an open palm, probably harder than was necessary. "I knew you two were up to something as soon as you disappeared during intermission! Come on, now, you can't tease me like that and give no details. Let's go, out with it. Right now!"

Bulma laughed, shoving Chi Chi's hands away. "Stop it, psycho! It was nothing, don't get so damn excited," she tittered, ignoring the looks they were getting. Down on the mats the referee's whistle sounded shrilly to announce that a match had begun, but Bulma didn't recognize either participant. "I don't even know what it means, really. It happened really suddenly."

"And what is 'it', exactly?" Chi Chi pried noisily, pulling a package of fruit snacks from her bag to quell the whiny requests coming from Gohan. 

"I mean, we made out a little..."

"Oh, damn, is that it? God, from the size of your smile I'd thought you'd finally gotten laid," Chi Chi said, laughing. Something happened down on the floor and there was a collective intake of breath throughout the crowd, which soon erupted into cheers as the West City team member's hand was thrust into the air by the ref, declaring him the winner of what had to be the shortest match yet. Chi Chi scoffed audibly, temporarily distracted from harassing Bulma by her displeasure at the outcome. "Oh, c'mon! BOO!"

"It's still exciting for me!" Bulma defended hotly, again doing her best not to make eye contact with any of the disgruntled West City supporters surrounding them as they turned to stare scathingly at Chi Chi. She had learned during years of accompanying Chi Chi to Goku's matches that very little import was given to what those around her thought: she was a very vocal supporter of both Goku and his team, naysayers be damned. "We've been  _sort of_  dating for weeks now, and I didn't think he'd ever make a move."

"So he initiated, then?" her friend clarified, still staring critically down at the mat as the boy in orange was helped off the floor. 

Bulma paused before responding. "Well, no, not exactly... but he certainly was, erm,  _enthusiastic_ once it got started."

Chi Chi rolled her eyes, making another indignant noise. "Well of course he was, Bulma.  _Any_ man would be enthusiastic about getting up close and personal with  _you_ ," she said, giving her a look as though she were stupid. "The real question is, what do you want to get out of it? Is it just fun and games, or are you expecting something more serious? That kind of arrangement can get messy real fast if you don't set some ground rules."

Bulma's smile waned as the impact of Chi Chi's words fully connected in her mind. What  _did_ she want from Vegeta? It was a question that had been floating around in her thoughts for months now, but which had always seemed too complicated to fully address. Now that they had officially launched past mere 'friendship' - and there was no denying that what had happened on the bus  _did_ change things, irreversibly - it was something she needed to give more than a passing thought to. "I don't... I don't really know," she admitted, giving her thumb nail closer inspection than was necessary in order to avoid Chi Chi's critical gaze. "I kind of got caught up in the moment, I guess."

"I get that. I just don't want you to get your heart broken 'cause some jerk wanted to feel you up, and you were expecting something more," Chi Chi amended, putting her hand on Bulma's knee fondly. "Especially after Yamcha, I just feel like you deserve someone who really  _wants_ you, you know?"

Despite knowing that Chi Chi's words were meant to be encouraging and supportive, she couldn't help but feel her chest tighten at the unspoken implication that Vegeta might just be using her for physical gain. She knew that didn't make sense - if that were the case, why the hell hadn't he jumped at the chance to get in her pants weeks ago? - but all the same, the doubt was planted, and she felt its tendrils begin to grow as she sat there, tainting the happiness she had felt not fifteen minutes earlier.

Chi Chi's attention was again diverted as another match began, and Bulma let her holler, happy not to have to answer any more questions. 

The second round went by substantially faster than the first if only because there were fewer pairings and thus fewer matches. Vegeta and Goku both fared well, defeating their opponents with relative ease, barring a scary moment wherein Goku took a kick to the head and tottered uneasily afterwards, disoriented and in prime position to be taken advantage of. Luckily his opponent hadn't acted quickly enough and he was able to regroup himself in time to counter the follow-up attack. 

Krillin, unfortunately, didn't hold his own as well, and after a brutal onslaught of right handed jabs he went down in a flurry of limbs and blood from a busted lip. Bulma had been too preoccupied ensuring Chi Chi didn't scale down the bleachers, hollering obscenities, to be too worried; regardless, Krillin had been helped off the mat just a few minutes after being KO'd and was soon thereafter treated by the on-site medic. 

As the final match of the second round ended, giving another win to the home team, the referee announced a second, shorter intermission, this time of fifteen minutes. People immediately began milling towards the exit of the arena in search of bathrooms and snacks. 

"We're gonna go grab a bite. Want anything?" Chi Chi asked as she stood from her seat, grabbing a very grumpy Gohan by the hand. To his credit, he had behaved well for an elementary aged child, considering he'd been asked to sit and pay attention to the same thing for hours on end. It had only ever been a matter of time before he lost his patience and got restless. 

Bulma shook her head, unconsciously finding herself searching for Vegeta amongst the small group of athletes scattered around the bench area down on the floor below. "Nah. I'll wait here," she said. 

"Suit yourself." She scooted past Bulma, Gohan in tow, and the two of them made their way to the end of the row to vacate the gymnasium.

Bulma sighed heavily, gazing down at the orange clad team by the mats. She could see Goku, one hand on his hip and the other clutching the back of his neck, standing next to the bench where Krillin sat, still looking a little dazed from his knockout. 

Piccolo stood nearby as well, arms crossed in silent observation of the conversation, and as she watched the scene Tien crossed the floor from where his own team was grouped, presumably to check in on Krillin as well. 

What she didn't see, though, was the signature flame of hair she was looking for, the typical scowl she knew would be on his face if she could just find where he was. She skimmed the group a second time, but again did not see him, and resigned herself to the fact that he had probably gone to the locker room. 

"Bulma." 

Bulma jumped at the sudden sound of her name and turned wildly towards the source, a hand placed over her chest instinctively as though to calm her thudding heart. She frowned, finding possibly the last person she wanted to see standing next to her. "Fuck, Yamcha, you scared the shit out of me." 

Yamcha flushed slightly, recognizing the irritation in her voice; it was a tone he had gotten intimately familiar with during the last several months of their relationship. He stood before her awkwardly, the scar on his cheek stretched unnaturally as he grimaced at her reaction. "I wanted to come apologize to you about what happened in the lobby." 

She pursed her lips. Between his unannounced inclusion into their group of spectators for the first round and his attempt to incite a fight with Vegeta during the intermission, she had just about had enough of Yamcha for one day. Fuck, more than a day - she had reached her Yamcha quota for the next several weeks. "You're getting pretty good at that recently, aren't you?" she asked snidely, turning back to the open floor. The pairings for the upcoming round had been added to the large screen on the far side of the gymnasium, and she was happy to see there was only a handful left. "All I seem to hear from you anymore are apologies."

"That doesn't mean they aren't sincere." He took a seat in the empty space next to her, and she stifled a groan. She wondered if he intended to be as agitating as he was, or if it was just due to absolute cluelessness. "I didn't mean to start anything with him. I just wanted to introduce myself. Real attitude he's got, though." 

Bulma bristled, affronted by his criticism of Vegeta. It may have been true, but Yamcha didn't know him well enough - or at all, really - to be dishing out judgement. "You're lucky he didn't knock your goddamn lights out," she spat, giving him a sharp look. "And anyway, I fucking  _asked_ you not to say anything and you went ahead and did it all the same. What's your excuse for that?" 

Yamcha squirmed uncomfortably, averting her critical gaze. "I just thought you were being dramatic, honestly," he said, looking sheepish. "Guess not, though."

"Gee, fucking  _imagine that_." 

"B, really though," Yamcha started, and Bulma could tell by the hesitancy in his voice that she wasn't going to like what he had to say even before he said it. "I know you don't care what I think about this, but, like... Are you sure? I mean,  _him_? Really?" 

Bulma snapped her eyes back to Yamcha, a snarl on the tip of her tongue, and, seeing the ferocious look on her face, he began to back pedal immediately. 

"Wait,  _wait_! I just mean, like, are you sure he can give you want you want?" he said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "He doesn't exactly seem like the lovey-dovey type. Will he really commit to you like you deserve?" 

Bulma groaned. "Why do people keep asking me that?" she complained, slapping one of her palms against her knee in exasperation. She had been waiting for this line of questioning from him throughout the opening series of matches, but it had never come; it made sense, then, that she was having to deal with it now. Having already dealt with something similar from Chi Chi, though, her patience were running short. "Yamcha, let me ask you something. How do you know that's what  _I_  want?" 

This possibility had obviously not occurred to him. Yamcha stared at her, his mouth slightly slack as though he didn't understand the point she was trying to make. "What do you mean?" 

Bulma sighed and tucked a piece of hair roughly behind her ear. She wasn't sure why she was even bothering to explain this to  _Yamcha_  of all people, but it felt important somehow to defend whatever it was she was doing with Vegeta, if for nothing else than to tamp down her own doubts that had been born from the diatribe she’d sat through from Chi Chi. "Maybe I don't  _want_ a serious committed relationship, eh? Maybe I don't want him to 'settle down' with me, or whatever the hell you think he needs to be doing. Who ever said  _I_  wanted lovey-dovey? Casual hook-ups are a thing, you know. How do you know we're not just having fun?" 

Yamcha's expressed tightened into something vaguely resembling pain, and Bulma realized a little too late that alluding to her having sex with someone else - although it hadn't happened, at least not  _yet_ \- might not be something Yamcha wanted to envision. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "I mean, I don't, I guess. I... It's none of my business, I suppose. You're right. I just..." 

He trailed off, his focus determinedly on his hands, and for the first time in months Bulma felt a frustrating pang of sympathy for him. When he had shown up to watch the fights with them at the commencement of the tournament, Bulma had been wary; based on their last interaction, she had hoped he would keep his distance, and had immediately assumed he was there to try his hand at winning her back again. Instead, he had practically held her hostage with an incessant stream of stories, yammering on and on about all the supposedly  _amazing_  things that had been going on his own life for the past several weeks. In retrospect she wondered if he hadn't been exaggerating in an attempt to provoke some sort of jealousy or envy from her. Looking at him now, a dejected look on his face, he seemed little more than a sad, lonely little boy.

"Yamcha..." she began, hating the guilt she felt building in her gut. He had directly disobeyed her, almost provoked a fight with Vegeta, and then showed up out of nowhere to lecture her again; why should she feel bad for him, at all? He had a talent for turning the situation around to benefit himself, she knew, but it was still tricky to deal with. "We've been over this, Yamcha. You promised to move on and see other people, remember?"

"When you're not around, I'm fine. I guess seeing you with someone else is just rough," he said with a strangled laugh. He flashed her a morose look, and sighed heavily. "I know it's stupid, but I feel like if I can't have you, I want to make sure the guy who does really deserves it. You deserve someone who appreciates you."

"Honestly, Yamcha, that’s a little creepy, and completely out of your control. It's really not your place to worry about that," Bulma said, her tone softening in light of his fragility. The conversation had gotten a little too personal for her liking, especially considering they were surrounded by complete strangers, and she was eager to wrap-up whatever the point of this interaction was before he did something worse, like cry. "Even if I do get hurt, those are  _my_ decisions to make. I don't need you policing my relationships. Besides, like I said, I don't even know that I want anything serious right now. I'm kind of enjoying just... playing the field."

This wasn't strictly true, and Bulma knew it as she said it. She wasn't sure what was going on with Vegeta, and imagined that he probably didn’t have any clearer idea than she did, but what she  _was_ sure of was that she liked him more than she should, considering they had only known each other for a few months. Saying that she didn't want anything serious implied that she was only seeing Vegeta casually and didn't expect any kind of monogamous commitment from him and in theory, this was true; however, the idea of him going on other dates or kissing girls that weren't her made her stomach roil. 

She put a pin in that particular sentiment, knowing it would require further internal dissection later, and looked up in time to see Chi Chi excusing her way back down the aisle with Gohan closely behind her. Yamcha stood as they approached, obviously realizing his time was up - Chi Chi would certainly not entertain his nonsense the same way that Bulma did. "As long as you're happy, B. That's all I want," he said, and gave her a forced smile before turning to leave.

Chi Chi took her spot next to Bulma and handed a bottle of water to Gohan before turning to her with a raised eyebrow. "What the hell was that?"

"That was a glimpse into the goddamn soap opera I've been living recently," she griped, giving her a wry look. She snagged a french fry from the container Chi Chi carried before continuing. "Yamcha just has this twisted sense of duty to ensuring I'm happy, whatever the hell that means."

"That's just his twisted way of maintaining control on you now that you're not directly under his thumb," Chi Chi dismissed with a scoff as Gohan pilfered fries from her container as well. "Don't put up with that crap. Just be smart, and do whatever you think feels right."

"Yeah..." she mused, gnawing idly on a fry as the ref's whistle blew from down by the mats. Her gaze trailed down to the floor just in time to see Vegeta rejoining the group from the double doors on the far side of the bleachers opposite where they were sitting. His arms were crossed tightly over his broad chest and his shoulders were back, providing a ramrod straight posture that gave him an undeniable air of superiority.

What Chi Chi said made sense, and, as she studied Vegeta's handsome features from where he stood down below, Bulma knew that she was right; despite what everyone else had to say about her romantic endeavors, at the end of the day the only thing that mattered was that  _she_ was satisfied with how things were going. Societal expectations of what she should and shouldn't do really had no bearing on actuality, and, above all else, she was going to ensure her own standards were met before ever comparing them with what anyone else thought. The one underlying commonality, though, the one question that she kept finding herself coming back to, was also the only thing she hadn't quite managed to figure out yet: what  _did_ she want?

\----

By the time the tournament ended the sun had gone down and Bulma’s stomach was growling. She had gotten something quick to scarf down between the training session that morning and the commencement of the competition, but hadn't had anything other than a handful of fries and a sip of coffee since then. Her first goal upon exiting the campus would be to find food. 

The matches themselves had had a rather anticlimactic end; by the time the semi-final round had ended, there were only SCU representatives left, and so instead of forging matches from within the same team the referee had awarded their final standings based on the accumulative points from the prior rounds. Goku had  _just_ outranked Vegeta - much to Vegeta's obvious annoyance, which Bulma could perceive even from her spot up in the stands - and another, third member of their team had rounded off the final podium spot, though Bulma didn't recognize him or know his name.

People began to file out of the auditorium not much later, and as Chi Chi rose from her spot to follow suit, Bulma hesitated. She wasn't sure if Vegeta would be in a mindset to entertain her presence, as she knew he would be sorely disappointed at coming in a "mere" second place, but she also didn't want him to think she was uninterested in seeming him later. A better question was why the hell she had to think so hard over the smallest things. Had she fought so many doubts when she'd begun dating Yamcha? It was hard to say, being that that had been back in high school.

"Hey, Earth to Bulma," Chi Chi asked, nudging her leg with a knee. Gohan yawned from where he stood, clutching his mother's hand. "Someone needs to get some sleep, so we're going to head back to the house. You coming? I'll make something to eat if you want."

She mulled over this option as Vegeta snatched his towel and water bottle from the floor next to the bench and slouched moodily into the locker rooms among his teammates. If nothing else, hanging out with Chi Chi and Gohan sounded a lot more appealing than going back to her parents', where she'd spend the evening dealing with her mother's inane chitchat as she bobbed around the living room like a hummingbird. "Sure, I'll come. Should we wait for Goku?"

Chi Chi shook her head as they began to file down the aisle. "Nah. He'll take the bus back to the hotel with the other guys," she dismissed. They maneuvered their way through the crowds and back out into the cold, then climbed into Chi Chi's ancient station wagon.

"Mom, I'm cold," Gohan whined from his place in the back seat as the old engine roared to life. 

Chi Chi buckled her seat belt before edging the car out of the parking space and into the line of vehicles waiting to exit the lot. "We're all cold, baby. Give the car a minute to warm up and I'll turn on the heat, okay?" She glanced over at Bulma, who was sitting next to her in the passenger's seat. "Any plans tonight, then, to see your grumpy lover?"

Bulma snorted as she looked out the window, watching the passing pedestrians hurry to their respective cars in the cold. "He's not my lover," she protested, rubbing at her forearms in an attempt to stimulate warmth. "And no, I don't. Not officially, anyway. I wasn't sure if he'd want to, after the tournament and all. He'll probably text me later."

"That doesn't sound like you at all," Chi Chi said, quirking a brow at her. "If you want to see him, why not text him yourself? Don't play shy. He's probably in the locker room right now, waiting for  _you_ to message  _him_."

"I'm not playing shy! I'm being respectful of his boundaries and giving him space," she countered, though Chi Chi's comment had provoked another small doubt in the back of her mind. As they pulled bumpily from the parking lot onto the main road, she slid her phone out of her pocket discretely.

What she was surprised to see, though, was a message from Vegeta already waiting for her in her inbox with a timestamp from two minutes earlier. She opened it hastily and found a blunt request.

_Pick me up early tomorrow. I want to get back to school before noon._

This was followed by a second text, which arrived as Bulma was reading the first.

_If you don't mind._

Bulma fought a smirk and tapped out a quick response.

_I'll be outside the hotel at eight tomorrow morning._

The frantic buzzing that had filled her skull since they'd parted ways in the bus calmed as she recognized that this was his way of reaching out to her. She had gotten quite good at reading into his actions and looking past his words for their real meaning - most of the time, anyway; it was definitely an art and not a science, and varied from day to day - and knew that he was asking her for some space while trying to avoid hurting her feelings. This would give him the evening to mull over whatever foul mood he was surely in after the matches, and still ensure that she had an entire car ride home with him to look forward to. All in all, it was abnormally tactful on his part.

She smiled as they drove off campus, ignoring the bickering that had broken out between Gohan and Chi Chi over what radio station to play.

\----

Vegeta was waiting outside the lobby of the hotel the next morning in a pair of jeans and a jacket, as bag on the ground next to him and a difficult to read expression on his face. Bulma slowed to a stop in front of him and unlocked the doors to let him in.

"Good morning!" she chirped happily as he slammed the passenger door behind him and slung his bag into the empty backseat. "Sleep well?"

He grunted in response, which was more or less the answer she'd been expecting, and folded his arms neatly over his chest as she pulled back out of the parking lot. Bulma continued chattering, accustomed by now to having to pull Vegeta through conversations by force. 

"Did you do anything last night after the tournament?" she asked, determined to keep her voice cheery in the face of his unyielding lack of enthusiasm. Sometimes it took a little while for his icy exterior to melt, but if Bulma was anything, it was persistent. "I went back to Chi Chi's and got some food, and we watched an animated movie you would've hated."

"Went to the gym. Ate. Went to bed," he offered curtly, staring intently out the window. It was a cold, gray day, a physical manifestation of Vegeta's apparently continuing sour mood, and the gray clouds crowding together on the horizon made her think they would spend the majority of the drive home in the rain.

"Well that sounds thrilling." A comfortable silence descended upon them, and Bulma found herself wondering whether she should bring up what had happened the day before or not. Was this new intimacy something they were directly addressing, or something more casual that they wouldn't talk about outside of the act itself? She had so many questions. Maybe now, when he was physically forced into close contact with her, would be the best time to address them.

To her surprise, Vegeta brought it up before she could. "Bulma." He turned to look at her abruptly with an air of gravitas that made her stomach clench. "About yesterday... I don't want to give you the wrong impression."

That didn't sound promising. She had the sensation of a hidden trap door in her gut giving out, leaving her abdomen empty and her organs floating uncertainly out in space. She focused determinedly on the road ahead of them, her hands gripping the steering wheel steadily. "How so?"

He cleared his throat. How many times had he practiced this conversation over the past twelve hours? She knew he wasn't one for candid expressions of emotion, so there was no doubt whatever she was about to hear was rehearsed. "I'm enlisting in six months. I won't be around after that. I'm fine with hanging out and... uh, you know,  _whatever else_  until then, but that's... that's it. I don't know what your expectations are, but I can't do anything, erh...  _serious_. Long term. You know... in case that's what you were after."

Okay,  _that_  would definitely need some further dissection when she was alone and able to pull apart what he was  _really_ trying to say; for now, though, at least at face value, it didn't seem so bad. She'd known he was joining the military after graduation, so it was no surprise he didn't want a committed relationship. Truthfully, she wasn't sure if that was what she wanted yet, either. In fact, there was only one glaring bit of that confession she had any questions about at all. "Are you just 'fine' with hanging out, or do you  _want_ to?" she asked pointedly, stealing a look at him as she merged onto the highway. "I mean, you seemed pretty enthusiastic about it yesterday, but it would be nice to actually hear those words from the source."

He grumbled at that and squirmed in his seat before responding. "Well, yeah, I want to," he murmured, turning his head back to the window. "I liked yesterday. What happened, I mean. But it can't be... I don't want you to..."

Bulma could practically hear the cogs in his head grinding together, struggling to form a coherent sentence that could still accurately portray what he really meant. It was a tad cringe worthy, but somehow still endearing. She swooped in to save him before smoke started pouring from his ears. "You can't commit long term, is what you mean," she offered, sitting a little straighter in her seat. "We can date casually, but call it quits after graduation. No pressure, no commitment. Right?"

Vegeta paused, digesting the wording of this proposition, before nodding slowly. “Well… yeah.” She could see him turning to look at her from the corner of her eye. “Does that… Are you okay with that?”  
  
Truth be told, she still hadn’t decided. She’d spent most of the evening turning the options over in her mind, trying to look at them from every possible direction to decide which one best aligned with the way she felt, but had still been unwilling to decidedly choose one.   
  
She didn’t necessarily want a committed relationship; after years of dealing with Yamcha, the past several semesters of freedom had been really liberating, and she quite enjoyed being able to do whatever she wanted whenever she wanted with whomever she wanted. She didn’t have to worry about checking in with anyone, or making plans, or birthday gifts, or anniversaries; the only thing that mattered were  _her_  priorities,  _her_  wants and needs. It was nice.   
  
She also didn’t really want to deal with a sloppy friends-with-benefits type of arrangement. As Chi Chi had said during the tournament, those situations rarely ended well, and she knew herself well enough to recognize that she would be walking a very thin line if she and Vegeta were to establish something similar. She would have to set very strict boundaries for herself and adhere to them completely to ensure she not get too attached; although she thought herself relatively trusting, she also had a possessive streak, and knew she had a tendency to fall fast and hard. Part of the reason she’d stayed with Yamcha so long was because she had grown so reliant on his presence, even if it was doing more damage than good by the end.  
  
That really only left the option of a purely platonic friendship, and they had already proved that they were beyond that. Could she continue to spend copious amounts of time with Vegeta and not wrestle with the urge to throw herself at him? It seemed unlikely. Even now, sitting next to him in the car, she could feel her attention to their conversation waning as her eyes skimmed over the fabric of his t-shirt, stretched taught over his well-formed pectorals.   
  
When it came down to it, she knew that the deciding factor in all of this was Vegeta. Did she objectively want any of the aforementioned relationships? No, not really. She didn’t have an impartial urge to be tied to someone else, or some need to fulfill long sought after romantic fantasies. But what if she could have any of those options with  _Vegeta_  instead of some no-faced mystery stranger? That changed things. Suddenly, they all seemed appealing.  
  
If Vegeta had already decided that he couldn’t do a serious commitment, then her hand was forced. It was either agree to his terms or cut ties with him, and she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she didn’t want the latter. The best she could do would be to agree and do her best not to stray from the defined path of this supposed “casual dating”. The only outstanding issue was what she would do when he eventually left, but there were still months left to deal with that. In the meantime, she wanted him in  _some_ capacity, and if this was the only way to do it, then so be it.  
  
Bulma nodded, looking over at him with an easy smile. “If that’s what you’re comfortable with, I’m okay with that,” she said, and diverted her attention back to the road to distract herself from the peculiar feeling blooming in the pit of her stomach. Something Chi Chi had mentioned the day before suddenly sprang to mind. "Maybe we should set some ground rules, though? Just to make sure we don't cross any of each other's boundaries, I mean, and make a mess of things."  
  
Vegeta thought over this proposal for several silent moments before relenting with a nod. "Fine," he said, nodding. "Rule one: no introducing each other to our families, or friends."  
  
Bulma laughed in spite of herself. "You're saving yourself a headache with that one. My mother would  _love_  you," she snickered, and was pleased to see him darken a shade in response. "Agreed, though. No families, or friends. Rule number two, then, should be honesty. Be honest with me about how you feel, and if things get sketchy for you, tell me. Preferably no disappearing for days at a time."  
  
"In that case, number three is to respect my privacy," he grumbled, giving her a dark look. "No interrupting my gym schedule or showing up at my apartment unannounced. When I say no, it means  _no_."  
  
Bulma sniffed at that, annoyed with the insinuation that she occasionally served as some kind of nuisance in his life. "Fine," she quipped sourly, "the same goes for you, then. That means no more sitting in on my study sessions at night."  
  
He had no vocal response to that, but gave her an indignant look that did all the talking for him. She didn't know why, but somehow Vegeta's insistence in being a guardian of her safety reminded her of Yamcha's bizarre quest to ensure her happiness and consequently, it agitated her.   
  
Maybe that was why the next thing out of her mouth was, "Number four should be that this is an open door arrangement, then."  
  
"What the hell does that mean?"  
  
"If another relationship possibility comes up and one of us decides to opt out of this, the other person can't get jealous or upset."  
  
Vegeta stilled, and for a fleeting moment Bulma wondered if she hadn't upset him somehow. She knew that wouldn't make sense - it was him that had offered up this 'no commitment' idea in the first place - and was a little embarrassed by the sense of relief that flooded her when he finally did speak.

"Agreed," he said, his tone suspiciously even. "And the last rule should be no emotions. No feelings. We're only friends, even if... if  _other things_  happen."  
  
Bulma's stomach did a weird somersault at the allusion to future encounters of the physical kind, sending her mind through a whirlwind of memories of Vegeta's mouth on hers, of his wide hands traveling up her thighs, of his strong arms wrapped around her. She decided to focus on this instead of the embargo on any sentiment other than lust that Vegeta had just proposed. "Fine. Five rules, then. No involvement of families or friends; a promise to be honest and communicative; always be respectful of each other’s privacy; keep open to other relationship possibilities; and no messy feelings," she summarized, glancing over at him. She paused before adding, “I'm going to warn you, though, you might fall in love with me. I'm pretty irresistible.”  
  
He snorted derisively, and the lingering sense of seriousness that floated between them dissipated. It soon became clear that Vegeta's initial standoffish-ness had been somehow attributed to his reticence to bring up their bizarre relationship status. As soon as that was out of the way, they settled into relaxed banter as they cruised down the freeway. The clouds had indeed opened up as she had predicted, releasing torrents of rain, and the windshield wipers on Bulma's car flicked back and forth methodically.  
  
"Hey, can I ask you something?" Bulma looked at Vegeta after twenty minutes of easy driving, reclined comfortably back in his seat with an arm bent back to rest behind his head. He looked at her and shrugged, nodding.   
  
"Yeah, what?"  
  
"Do you remember a few months ago, you had some scrimmage match on campus and kicked the shit out of some kid? Like, knocked him out and broke his nose, even after the ref blew the whistle?"  
  
If Vegeta felt any lingering guilt over the incident, he masked it wonderfully, as his only response was another nonchalant shrug. "Yeah? What about it?"  
  
"I saw him say something to you right before you knocked him out. What was it?" she looked over at him, expecting him to shrug at her again. It had been months ago, after all; she supposed she couldn't blame him if he didn't remember. She didn't know why she still remembered, honestly. "Is that what upset you? What he said?"  
  
Vegeta's mouth cinched to one side in an expression of annoyance, and for a moment Bulma though she might not get an answer. After a second's contemplation, though, he relented. "He said something shitty about my mother. Some dumbass comment that was supposed to be funny, I guess," he mumbled, leaning back in his seat again and closing his eyes. "Shouldn't have let it get to me. That's what he wanted."  
  
"Oh." Somehow that hadn't been the answer she'd been expecting. She waited a moment before asking for further clarification. "But, what, was it an insult specifically about  _your_ mother? Or was it just some stupid generic 'your mom' joke?"  
  
There was a longer pause this time before he answered her. "I mean, no, he doesn't  _know_ my mom. She's dead, has been for years. Died when I was just a kid. It was just some stupid joke, but it's just... a sore topic for me, I guess."  
  
The rhythmic swishing of the windshield wipers suddenly felt deafening. Why did she insist on being nosy when it always landed her in uncomfortable situations like this? Bulma cleared her throat. "I'm sorry. That's... awful. I shouldn't have pried."  
  
Surprisingly, Vegeta laughed, a harsh cough of incredulity. "What're  _you_ sorry about? It's not your fault she died."  
  
"Well, no, but still... I'm sorry you had to grow up without your mom. That must've been really hard."  
  
"It wasn't growing up without her that was killer, but growing up with my old man," he murmured, but before Bulma could process whatever  _that_ meant, he changed the subject. "I didn't know you were at that fight. How long you been stalking me, Briefs?"  
  
Bulma scoffed. " _Puh-lease_. You're the one who shows up wherever I am - the gym, the cafeteria, around campus, even at my dorm. If either of us has a problem, it's you."  
  
He laughed again, though this time there was a genuine, easy quality to the sound that made Bulma's heart squeeze. She realized that it wasn't very often that she got hear him laugh - at least not a  _real_  laugh, one that was reflective of actual mirth as opposed to bitter sarcasm or annoyance. It was nice.

Embarrassingly, he caught her looking at him as she stared, enjoying the relaxed expression his laughter produced on what was normally such a stoic face. He smirked as she hurriedly looked away, and said, "I guess we'll see about that, won't we?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"So run, wake up and run, my little one_   
>  _I wanna tear down these walls that can't hold you inside_   
>  _And rip out the cords and uncover your eyes_   
>  _We'll make our escape in the dark of night_   
>  _I need you to see this."_
> 
>  
> 
> Yay for a first peek at something intimate! Also, rules were established, but ehh... I think we all know neither of them is much of a rule follower.


	10. A Spanish Lesson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, hi! I know it's been ages and I apologize for the comparatively short length of this chapter - it's roughly half the size of most of my (overly long) additions, but I wanted to get something posted to let you know I haven't disappeared! I am actively working on this fic and hope to be back to a normal update schedule very soon!
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter!

"Aren't you coming up?"

Bulma looked at Vegeta, surprised. It was true that they had gotten home in good time - it was barely past 10 in the morning at that point, as they had been lucky not to hit any traffic despite the rain - but she had thought the entire reason for leaving West City so early was because Vegeta had other plans to tend to. Unless... unless _she_ was those other plans.

She cleared her throat a little too loudly, unaware of her tightening grip on the steering wheel. "Uh, what do you mean?"

Vegeta scoffed, still not moving from his spot in the passenger seat even though she was idling in a very illegal yellow curb spot in the space in front of his building. He gave her a look of impatience. "Do you want me to help you with your Spanish work or not? I don't have all day, you know."

"Oh! Oh, right, of course," she said, and let out a laugh of relief in spite of herself. "I forgot I'd asked you to do that. Yeah, that sounds great, but - ah, shit, all my stuff is back at my dorm. Why don't we head over there, then, and just study at my place?"

One would have thought she'd suggested he move in with Goku from the way his nose wrinkled in what was clearly disdain. "Why?" he asked, his eyebrows pulled down while one side of his upper lip curled.

Bulma pursed her lips at him. "Because it doesn't make sense to run all over campus. I’d have to drive back to my place to get my books, come back here, and then leave again to go back home afterwards. Besides, this way I can't overstay my welcome. When you decide you're sick of me, you can just go," she pointed out. Considering they had just established the rules for their interactions not much more than an hour previously, she wasn't eager to break the third one - "be respectful of each other's space and privacy" - already.

After mulling it over for a haughty moment this suggestion seemed to placate Vegeta's objections, as he crossed his arms over his chest moodily and harrumphed a grumpy, "Fine."

Ten minutes later they were standing outside of Bulma’s dorm while she dug clumsily through her bag for her keys. "I know they're in here somewhere... They must've fallen out of this pocket here, hold on..."

Vegeta grumbled next to her. His shirt was damp from the quick walk from the car, and rain droplets glistened in his hair as he turned his head to flash her a disapproving look. "Maybe if you didn't have so much shit in that bag they would be easier to find," he complained under his breath. He watched her search from where he was leaning up against the door frame, a sour expression on his face. "Don't you have a roommate? Can't you just knock?"

"Oh, she won't be out of bed for another hour or two," Bulma dismissed with a snort, before triumphantly yanking the elusive keychain from her bag. "Voila! Knew they were in there. Come on in."

She pushed open the heavy front door and marched into her dorm, Vegeta following her sullenly. To her surprise, the television was on as they entered, and Eighteen's platinum blond head peeked over the back of the couch as the door slammed shut behind them. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the sight of Vegeta, stood insolently behind Bulma with his hands in his pockets.

"What's _he_ here for?" she complained. Her voice sounded more nasally than usual, and after closer inspection Bulma realized her eyes were bloodshot as well.

She ignored Eighteen's demanding question in favor of one of her own. "What's wrong? You sick?" she asked, walking over to the couch to cover her friend's forehead with her palm. "You don't feel warm enough to have a fever."

Eighteen swatted Bulma’s hand away with a groan. "I'm fine. Just a sinus infection," she griped, and collapsed back into the pile of blankets she had amassed on the sofa. "Can't sleep, though. Especially not now that you've brought that violent psycho into our home."

Vegeta huffed from his place by the door, but Bulma ignored him to give Eighteen a wry look. "Oh, stop it. Your brother is far worse when he wants to be," she brushed off, and turned to head down the little hallway that would take her to her bedroom. "Since you're out here, then, we'll be in my room. Get some rest."

It wasn't until Bulma was kicking off her shoes by her closet that she realized Vegeta hadn't followed her. She walked back over to the open doorway and saw him standing down the hall, still by the front door. "Uh, you coming?"

He squirmed, giving her a pained expression, before silently moving down the hall towards her. She raised an eyebrow but turned back to her desk to grab her Spanish book, a notepad, and some pens. "Okay, so I figured we could start with - with… uh, what's the matter?"

He was staring at her now, stood stiffly by the door with a difficult to read expression on his face. He flushed at her sudden scrutiny and dropped his gaze, shaking his head. "No, nothing."

"Are you going to act like a weirdo the whole time we're here or what?" she complained, her hand finding her hip as she appraised his bizarre behavior. "What's wrong? Remember, we just made a bunch of rules, and number two was honesty."

Vegeta scowled at that. "Nothing's wrong, damnit, I just... Do you care if I close the door? I don't want... I _hate_ being listened in on," he mumbled, glancing at her. "Privacy and all that."

She shrugged. "I don't care. Go for it," she said, plopping down on her bed with her school supplies in hand.

He closed the door quietly and hesitated awkwardly for a moment, looking around the room with an expression of discomfort clear on his face, before deciding to sit stiffly in the chair by her desk. She watched him, amused, until his attention was finally brought back to her. "What?" he snapped, crossing his arms defensively.

"Oh, nothing, nothing." She waved her hand dismissively and cracked open her Spanish book. "Let's start this so we can get it done. I think the assignment is about reflexive verbs."

"It is." He grunted in affirmation. "What don't you understand about it?"

"So, I totally understand the concept, right - they're basically like direct or indirect object pronouns, like 'me' or 'us', yeah?"

"No, not really," he said, and Bulma’s mouth immediately cinched into a scowl. To be fair, she had spent exactly zero time looking over this grammar point before asking Vegeta to help her out with it; still, she wasn't thrilled about getting something wrong exactly fifteen seconds into the lesson.

There was a loaded pause during which she stared at Vegeta, waiting for him to elaborate. When he didn't, she heatedly said, "Well? Come on, professor, cough up the details!"

He sneered at her, looking amused by her obvious annoyance, before deigning her with an answer. "Reflexive verbs are actions that fall back on the subject of the sentence, so the pronouns that accompany them are more akin to 'myself', 'yourself', ect cetera," he answered crisply, leaning back in his chair. It was rather incredible how quickly his body language changed as soon as he had some semblance of control on the situation, Bulma remarked silently. "Like, for example, 'he bathed himself'. Object pronouns can be used with actions that fall on people or things other than the subject, like 'we hit _them_ '."

She nodded, skimming over the breakdown of the verbs in their textbook. "Okay, simple enough. So... where do the pronouns go in the sentence, though?" Her brow wrinkled slightly and she looked over at him. "It looks like the infinitive has it tacked onto the end, but in the actual sentence it's just kind of thrown wherever."

Vegeta looked as though he barely managed to suppress an eye roll as he stared back at her balefully. "It's not just 'thrown wherever'," he snipped curtly. "It usually goes right in front of the conjugated verb but Spanish is pretty flexible, so there are other options."

"Gimme an example," Bulma demanded, the tip of her pen poised next to her lips. Chewing her pens was a bad habit she had had for ages and never managed to break, and she found herself most guilty of it when she was either concentrating particularly hard or feeling extra anxious about something. At present she wasn't sure which of the two options was more true. "In Spanish, I mean."

Vegeta's mouth gathered into another scowl, but he complied nonetheless, his voice an exasperated sigh. "If you wanted to say, for example, 'she brushes her teeth', you would say, ' _ella se cepilla los dientes_ '."

It was then that Bulma realized, stupidly, that despite her continued presence next to Vegeta during their joint Spanish class she had never actually heard him _speak_ it. She had known he had to be at least marginally conversational - she certainly wouldn't have asked him for assistance in completing the stupid assignment if she wasn't convinced of his comparative prowess in the coursework - but she hadn't been expecting whatever had just spilled from his lips. It was easy and fluid, almost melodic, and she without meaning to found herself gaping at him in surprise.

Vegeta ruffled under her scrutiny again, possibly misunderstanding the emotion evident in her wide eyes as criticism instead of wonderment. "What the hell are you staring at?" he barked, his forearms flexing as he tightened his crossed arms defensively. “I hope you’re paying attention because I’m _not_ fucking repeating myself.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but paused and smiled at him instead. "You speak more than a _little_ Spanish, don't you?"

He grunted at her, his lips still pursed into a frown. "Why does it matter?"

"Why would you hide something like that? It's really lovely," she said, confused by his apparent anger. Whenever she found herself to be particularly good at something, she wanted to scream it from the rooftops to ensure everyone knew. There was something to be said for having pride in your talents. "Where did you learn?"

He fidgeted, looking uncomfortable by the turn the conversation had taken, but Bulma waited patiently, knowing he would fold to her will if she didn't offer him an immediate way out. "I moved a lot as a kid. Just... picked it up, I guess," came his mumbled reply after a stretch of silence.

"Well you should use it more. Being bilingual is a really attractive quality to have," she said, and mercifully turned her attention back to her textbook as her compliment stained his cheeks a distinct shade of red. She peered over the questions that comprised the actual assignment, and said, "So, for this first one, then... It would be ' _yo me lavo la cara_ ', right?" The words sounded clumsy and foreign in her mouth, and she couldn't help but feel a little embarrassed by it after the apparent ease with which Vegeta had spoken.

If he thought her accent at all funny, though, he didn't let it show; on the contrary, he seemed relieved at the excuse to turn the attention away from himself. "Yeah, that's right," he said, clearing his throat. He leaned forward in his chair, allowing his elbows to rest solidly against his knees. "How many questions are there?"

Bulma's gazed fanned down to the bottom of the page. "Twenty," she said, drumming her pen against her bottom lip again before jotting down the answer to the question they had just gone over. "Okay, so number two should be... ' _nosotros nos vestimos para el colegio_ ', right?"

Vegeta nodded, but sighed, rubbing at the space between his eyes. "This is going to take all fucking day. Move over," he ordered, and rose from his spot by her desk to close the distance between them in three sturdy strides. Surprised, Bulma scooted to the side, allowing him to perch on the edge of her bedspread and look at the open textbook she had in front of her. "Look, I'll just run through them and you can tell me if you have questions. Alright?"

"No!" she complained, shoving his arm away as he reached for her pen. He scowled at her, but she shook her head, obstinate. "I'm not going to learn if you do it _for_ me! Be patient and help me like you said you would."

He sighed, irritable, but fell back on her bed against his elbows in resignation. "Fucking hurry up, then! Number three, go."

"That one is... Wait, what does that mean? ' _Acostarse_ '?"

"To lay down, or to go to bed."

Bulma couldn’t help but let loose a childish giggle, a provocative possibility coming to mind. In retrospect, she would blame this change in thinking on his sudden proximity; surely she would have been better able to maintain her focus if he’d kept his position in the chair across the room instead of sitting close enough that his leg brushed up against hers. "Could I use it if I wanted to say something more... risqué? Like, ' _yo me acosto con tu_ '?"

Vegeta let loose a strangled cough and propped himself up a bit straighter. "It's, uh, irregular, so it would be ' _yo me acuesto contigo_ ', but... yes, you could," he mumbled, staring fixedly over at her textbook. "The answer to this would be ' _tu te acuestas a las nueve_ ', though. Stay focused, woman."

"You're no fun," she complained, but jotted down the answer all the same. There was a distinct satisfaction she got when coaxing a blush out of Vegeta that didn't quite rival that of correctly conjugating a Spanish verb. She was finding it harder than she’d thought it would be to remain focused on her schoolwork with him so damn _close_ to her. "Okay, number four. That... wait, ' _tocarse_ '? I thought _tocar_ meant to play?"

"It does, but only for instruments," Vegeta said. The rosy tone had gathered around his ears, not quite ready to subside, but the forced seriousness in his expression told her he was doing his best to pretend it wasn't a factor. "Otherwise it's… err, 'to touch'."

Bulma’s head jerked over to meet his eyes with hers again, another devilish look creeping into her expression, like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. Vegeta regarded her warily. "So," she said, and her fingertips found his knee as she spoke to better illustrate her question, "I could use that verb to say, like, ' _yo te toco_ '?"

It was as though he were made of water, and she had pushed him out into sub-zero temperatures: he froze immediately at her touch, his body visibly tensing, though his facial expression remained a trained mask of indifference. More interesting yet, despite his transformation into a marble sculpture he did nothing to stop her advances. "Yeah," he managed, his voice forced steady, "But it wouldn't be reflexive then, since the action isn't - "

"Does it _have_ to be, though? Can't I just drop the pronoun?" She flattened her hand against his leg and began the slow journey up the outside of his thigh. It was becoming a game now, to her, trying to see how far off course she could steer their impromptu Spanish lesson. Her heart banged around in her ribcage. "What if I said, ' _yo toco tu pierna_ '?"

He cleared his throat again, still unmoving from his half reclined position, though his gaze kept trained on her own. The blush had regained control of his face, quickly moving across his cheeks and along his jaw, though it was the only hint his expression gave at discomfort. His shirt had ridden up his midsection just a bit, leaving an exposed inch or so of taught stomach, and Bulma’s eyes flicked down to appreciate the tease as he spoke again. "Well, uh, yeah, you can say that, but - "

Her hand reached the edge of the muscular breadth of his midriff, and she paused there, toying with the idea of slipping her hand under his shirt to further explore the expanse of his abdomen. "How do I say 'waist'?" she asked in a low tone. She knew she was testing his self-control, and while part of her mind was insistent that it was just to get a rise out of _him_ , a smaller, quieter part knew that she was _really_ hoping they could ditch the homework altogether and do something decidedly more entertaining, albeit still collaborative.

"' _Cintura_ "," Vegeta croaked, his eyes falling down to where her fingers lightly pulled at the waistband of his pants. He sat up a little straighter on his elbows before reaching over for her wrist. “Woman, this is not relevant to the stupid assignment - ”

“Well, I can make it about the assignment if that will make you happy,” Bulma said defiantly, and pulled her wrist from his grasp. If he wanted to play hard to get, then she was happy to up the ante a bit. She brought her hands to her own waist, and began fondling the edge of her shirt as her expression turned contemplative. “Okay, let’s see… Reflexive verbs. I believe it would be, ‘ _yo me desvisto_ ’, yes?”

How she miraculously remembered how to say ‘to get undressed’ as well as conjugate it was truly a mystery, considering her attention during most lectures was spotty at best; however, she’d obviously used it correctly, as Vegeta clearly understood what she meant. If his face had been red before, it went absolutely scarlet at this new revelation. “Bulma - ” he said gruffly, and again reached for her hand, but it was too late; her shirt went up and over her head with a fluid movement, and landed in a crumpled heap on the floor next to her bed, leaving her in the camisole she was wearing underneath. She was amused to note that, for all of his apparent reticence, he didn’t once look away.

“Come on, Vegeta, lighten up a little,” she coaxed, leaning towards him again. Her heart was pumping solidly in her chest, more from excitement than from nerves; after the incident on the bus, there was no doubting that he was interested in her, so there was no reason to be apprehensive anymore. At this point, the challenge lay in pulling him out of his comfort zone long enough to make him realize that he wanted it as much as she did. The tricky part was knowing when she was really pushing him _just_ enough, and when she’d crossed a line. “Look, if I’m really making you uncomfortable, tell me and I’ll cut it out.”

Vegeta considered this, concentration clear on his face by the way he nibbled on the inside of his bottom lip, before reaching out for her again. This time, though, he grabbed at the belt loop on her pants, and tugged her forcefully towards him. “If you want to fail the stupid class, that’s up to you,” he huffed at her, a mien of indignance breaking through his embarrassment. Their faces were much closer now, as his jerky movements had pulled her basically onto his lap. “But I don’t want to hear your bitching afterwards, got it?”

Bulma nodded, slightly breathless at the rapid change of pace, before Vegeta placed his palm along the length of her jaw, pulled her face towards his own and crashed his lips against hers. After what felt like much longer than the five or so minutes that they had been dancing around the exchange, victory was finally hers.

It should have been worrying, really, how quickly and naturally Bulma melted into him, how any lasting doubt evaporated as his kisses - which, she noted, were far gentler than she had ever imagined they would be - slowly calmed the fierce adrenaline pumping through her veins. There was no overhanging uncertainty; not a single doubt in her mind nagged at her, wondering why she was kissing a man she had been unable to have a full, non-argumentative conversation with just three months earlier. Instead, her hand found its way to his, and tugged it to rest against the small of her back in a show of comfort. She wanted to show him that it was okay to touch her - by all means, that was what she wanted.

Thankfully, he caught onto the message quickly, and used the leverage of his arm to sit up completely and pull her fully against him. She was sitting across his legs sideways, with both of her own curled to the left; this seemed to Vegeta’s liking, however, as it gave him ample space to mouth at her neck.

“Vegeta, you better not give me a hickey,” she complained breathlessly after a few moments as he sucked at the space below her earlobe. He grunted, but gave no other indication he planned on heeding her warning. She allowed it to continue for another few seconds before interjecting, “I mean it, I can’t walk around campus - ”

“God, you talk too much,” he groaned into her neck. His fingers slipped under the edge of her tank top, causing her skin to break out into excited goosebumps. “Just shut your trap for five minutes, eh?”

The irritated huff she had intended as a response instead manifested itself as a sharp gasp as his hand slid the rest of the way up the back of her shirt. She could feel him grinning against her skin, and tried to turn to face him. “You are such a - ”

Vegeta caught her off guard, choosing to delicately slide her off his lap altogether so she instead landed lithely on her back next to him. He hoisted himself over top of her, kneeling in such a way that straddled her legs without putting any of his actual weight on her, and which prevented escape, even had she wanted to. She gaped up at him, amused by his sudden audacity. “Oh, stop fucking pretending,” he dismissed, leaning back down to continue tonguing the pulse in her throat. His crude words were at odds with his careful movements, and she struggled against a moan as his thumb ran over her bottom lip. “You like it.”

Bulma scoffed again, but felt a distinct heat begin building in her face, knowing full well he wasn’t wrong. Still, it was a little jarring to be faced with such a bold statement from someone who, five minutes previous, had turned scarlet at a mere touch of the knee. It was like she had unintentionally opened a locked door and released some untold monster. “You’re one to talk. I could say the same thing about you,” she said haughtily, while simultaneously moving her head to the side to give him more space to explore the expanse of her neck. It somehow seemed important that he not know exactly what effect he was having on her - the fact that her stomach had turned to mush, and her brain had been replaced with an entire field of butterflies as his lips worked their way back along her jaw - and she thought it funny somehow that, even now, there was a competitive aspect to their dynamic.

He kissed her again, full on, and she allowed one of her hands to weave its way through his hair in response. He seemed to like that, as he gasped into her lips, and she sneered at his reaction. “Oh, that’s how it is, huh? Like to have your hair pulled?” she teased, knotting her fingers more fully into his surprisingly soft tendrils and yanking his head back. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you like it rough.”

Vegeta growled, glaring down his nose at her with a leer. “And I shouldn’t be surprised you’re as talkative now as you are any other time,” he retorted, and she realized too late that his fingers had breached the edge of her shirt again. Out of surprise more than anything else, she released her hold on him, and his lips immediately found hers again as his hand daintily grazed her ribs.

“Vegeta,” she hissed, arching her back as his docile touch tickled the delicate skin near her sternum, “God, that _tickles_ \- stop being so gentle! I’m not a damn china doll!”

His hand turned to stone from where it sat along her ribcage, and he pulled away slightly to look at her again. “You want me… to be rough?” he clarified, confusion blooming rapidly across his sharp features. Bulma was finding that she quite liked this look on him; whenever he lost his expression of haughty self-assuredness, there was something wonderfully innocent that snuck its way onto his face and she sincerely enjoyed it. The moment was fleeting, however, as his brow quickly crumpled into a scowl and he jerked his face to turn away from her. “No, you idiot. I - I don’t want to hurt you.”

Something about his tone froze the complaint that had begun building on Bulma’s tongue. She stared up at him, at his grouchy profile and unruly hair and broad shoulders, and saw more clearly than ever the uncertainty he hid under the mask that was his usual indifference. If ever there had been someone plagued by self-doubt and criticism, it was Vegeta. A realization tickled the back of her mind, and she was unabashedly flooded with a desperate sensation: a need to protect him from himself.

She had an inkling that his words were doubled edged, and that he meant more than physical hurt. Anything more than a few playful kisses threatened something larger, something that directly broke several of their recently established rules; he was being careful to tread lightly, she knew, but if she kept pushing his limits he seemed afraid they would tumble into something much more emotionally taxing. He was trying to be considerate of her feelings.

“You won’t hurt me,” she said, her voice more delicate than she had intended. Their eyes met and locked, and even as she reached up to place her fingers assuredly against his neck, he didn’t move, though the scowl had melted away. “I trust you.”

It was a loaded declaration, and she hoped he had gotten the gist of it. She could take it. Whatever he could throw at her, she could deal with. She had been through more emotional hardship than he probably gave her credit for, and even if she did end up harboring more in her heart than just a desire to get him naked, she would survive the fallout. What she desperately didn’t want was to lose the opportunity altogether.

He kissed her again, but there was something different this time: an urgency behind his lips, an added pressure in the way his hands held onto her, and she found herself breathless as he momentarily broke away to tug his own shirt from his muscled torso. Her long forgotten Spanish book clattered to the floor as he re-adjusted his position to lay next to her, and she was delighted to find, as she rolled over to press herself against him and again accept his eager kisses, that there was a distinct bulge pressed against her thigh.

“So?” she purred into his mouth as his fingers wove themselves into her hair, driving her lips harder against his. Her leg curled at the knee and he wrapped his other hand around her calf, pulling her halfway on top of him. “Decide that I can handle it, then?”

“No,” he said, uncharacteristically breathless as she came to fully straddle him from above. She felt wholly overdressed now that he was in nothing more than his jeans, and was half tempted to pull her own top off to join him in his semi-nudity. “But I want it too much to care.”

A thrill shot through her stomach and she giggled childishly as he pulled her back down to kiss him, his hand cupped gently around the back of her neck. “That’s fine, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _We've got the whole world under our feet_   
>  _When you're tired and you're falling asleep_   
>  _I don't wanna let go_   
>  _It's the freedom of falling, it's the way that you smile_   
>  _It's just a flicker of something that's saying goodbye_   
>  _It's the thought of tomorrow and the hope it would bring_   
>  _It's relying on comfort and the way that it stings_
> 
>  
> 
> Whew! First of all, let me extend my very, VERY sincere apologies for the abrupt disappearance! Long story short, my job requires a lot of international travel, and I've spent the first quarter of 2019 in remote places with very shoddy internet connection. I had intended on getting in touch before now, but life happens! Things have calmed down for the time being, so I am hopeful that I'll be able to return to this fic and dedicate more time to it again!
> 
> Many thanks for your patience! Again, I'm very grateful for all of your support and encouragement. (: Hopefully some of you are still around and interested in reading!


	11. A Secret Talent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Apologies again for the long break between uploads. I wanted to get several chapters edited and ready again, like I had been doing at the beginning of the story, before adding anything else. The good news is I have three finished chapters lined up after this one, so I should be back to solid upload schedule again, at least for the next month or two. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! Hope you like this installment!

Vegeta was _never_ late. He made a point to pride himself on his punctuality, and oftentimes arrived five to ten minutes early to class or assorted appointments to avoid any chance of tardiness. He found lateness to be a marker for carelessness or irresponsibility, neither of which he was a fan of, and which were characteristics he certainly did not care to associate himself with. His childhood had been painfully structured, to the point where he’d learned to expect corporal punishment in exchange for a two minute delay to a scheduled mealtime; obviously, one did not survive an upbringing like that without learning to adhere to the established rules without exception. As a result, those habits had rubbed off on him permanently. He was always unfailingly on time, probably because it had literally been beaten into him. He had just never known anything else. 

So it was because of this, coupled with the fact that he could have sworn he had just checked the clock and saw that he still had a good thirty minutes, that the realization that he was already ten minutes late to his martial arts practice gave Vegeta a particularly nasty shock. He bolted upright in bed, pushing Bulma perhaps a little too brusquely to the side, and leapt across the room to his wardrobe. His phone clattered to the floor, the time still glaring up towards the ceiling accusingly.

“Jesus, what’s the matter?” Bulma asked in surprise, her short azure hair a tousled mess atop her head as she pushed herself onto her elbows. The sight of her sitting amidst his blankets in nothing more than a pair of panties and a tank top almost slowed his search for a clean t-shirt; God knew he would have liked to have been able to stay in bed with her all afternoon, as uncharacteristic of him as that was. Still, the MA season was quickly coming to a close with the end of the fall semester, and he knew if he missed one of these final practices, Kaio would ensure he not get any time on the mat for their final tournament. He had worked too hard to let that happen.

“I’m late for practice,” he managed to say as he yanked a pair of gym shorts over the boxer briefs he’d already been wearing and turned to scramble for some socks. “I’ve got to go.”

Bulma whined loudly from across the room and he winced, reminded of a particularly obnoxious teapot. “Are you seriously going to leave me here in my underwear?” she complained. He could almost feel the scowl she had undoubtedly aimed at his back as he scrambled for clean clothes. “What a gentleman!”

“Who said I was going to leave you here?” he asked flatly, momentarily hopping on one foot as he pulled on the sneakers he usually dedicated for gym use. “You’re leaving, too. Get dressed.”

“Ah!” she scoffed, clearly scandalized. “What, you don’t trust me to be here by myself?” she griped, but nonetheless untangled herself from his bedsheets. “Real nice.”

Vegeta couldn’t help but simper at her annoyance. Even when she was complaining there was a bizarre attractiveness to the way she scrunched up her face at him, and he had to exercise more self control than he would’ve liked to admit to refrain from crossing the room to kiss her again. “Nothing personal. Rule number three,” he said instead with a shrug, citing one of their previously established five commandments. She grumbled at him but made no further protests, instead opting to tug on her jeans and grab the sweater they had unceremoniously flung across the room when they’d stumbled in forty minutes earlier.

As soon as she was decent again, he was ushering her out of his bedroom and into the hallway, pulling his gym bag onto his shoulder as they went. He quickly locked the door and turned to leave, knowing the minutes were still ticking by and plunger him deeper and deeper into a tardy arrival, but was stopped by a firm hand tugging on his forearm.

He spun around to look at Bulma in irritation. “What?”

“Will I see you later?” she asked him, fixing him with the full intensity of her large, blue eyes. There was a circular spot underneath her ear that was quickly purpling, and he wondered vaguely if she’d realized it yet. To be fair, it was as much her own fault as his own; if she hadn’t so obviously enjoyed when he suckled her there, he wouldn’t have been so intent on doing it.

He wavered in responding, not immediately sure how to answer. He hadn’t intended on seeing her again that day, no; it seemed to him that a once a day arrangement was already too frequent, and felt that multiple times within a single twenty four hour span threatened to push them over into something they were trying desperately not to be. Still, it was hard to give an outright denial when she was looking at him like that, especially when the memory of her pressed against him was still so recent…

“Maybe. Text me,” he said non-committedly, and pulled his arm free to jog down the hallway towards the elevators. 

“Have a good practice!” she called after him. He was almost tempted to turn around to get one last look at her, but resisted, and instead rounded the corner at the end of the hall without another backwards glance.

\---

  
“ _BREIGH_! Move it, boy! I told you, they have to be consecutive!” came Kaio’s roar from across the gym. 

Vegeta grit his teeth in annoyance, a defiant ‘fuck you’ a hair’s breadth away from his lips. His practiced self control forced him to block it out, knowing the repercussions of such defiance would be worse, and instead he focused squarely on his breathing, allowing his arms to lower into what would be push-up number ninety-two. His arms and chest ached with the familiar burn of physical exertion, but he refused to exhibit any signs of exhaustion; he knew that was what Kaio was looking for.

When he’d arrived late to find his teammates already finishing their warm-ups and transitioning into sparring, coach Kaio had suspiciously allowed him to join with little harassment. He’d thought this bizarre, knowing what a pain in the ass he could be about participation; even though Vegeta was at the top of the group insofar as physical fitness, he was expected to do the same stupid preliminary exercises as everyone else. Being allowed to arrive late and dive right into practicing form and technique, then, didn’t seem quite right.

He’d quickly learned he was mistaken, of course. As soon as they had paired off to begin timed mini-matches, Kaio’s voice had rung out across the gym, demanding that Vegeta give ten laps around the gym before continuing. Annoyed but unsurprised, he had complied. What he hadn’t expected, though, was to be interrupted every five minutes after that with similar requests. Increasingly longer sets of sit-ups, pull-ups, and then push-ups had been the majority of his practice, and now he wasn’t even allowed to leave until he completed a hundred of them without stopping to rest. Worse yet was that the rest of the team wasn’t allowed to leave until it was done, either, and were instead serving as an impromptu audience to his little charade. 

“C’mon, Vegeta! Eight more!” Kakarot called encouragingly from his spot on the bleachers, just a few dozen feet away. 

“Goku, I don’t think he likes that,” commented his bald friend in a rare moment of wisdom.

“Really? Why? Who doesn’t like being cheered for?”

“Shut up!” Vegeta snarled breathlessly, forcing his trembling arms to lift himself again before slowly lowering once more. Up, down. Up, down. Up, down. By the time he finished the hundredth repetition his upper body was threatening to give up on him altogether, so tired was he from repeating the same goddamn motions time after time after time with no chance to recuperate. Nonetheless, he refused to give the old man the satisfaction of seeing him flop down on the cool cement of the gymnasium floor. Arms aching, he pushed himself into a squat before slowly standing.

“Is that enough?” he spat haggardly at the portly coach, dragging a hand over his sweaty brow.

Kaio surveyed him for a moment as though debating whether he thought he’d had enough. “Yes,” he finally said, gripping his clipboard between both hands. “But I hope you’ve learned a valuable lesson about arriving on time.”

The bitter irony of the situation - of _Vegeta_ , of all people, being chided for tardiness - was almost too much for him to take. Rather than giving voice to this injustice, he opted to say nothing and instead stalked off to the locker rooms as the rest of his team huddled around their coach for his end-of-practice spiel. 

_The gall of that fat old man_ , he thought irritably as he ripped open his locker and tugged his sweat saturated shirt over his head. He’d gotten almost no actual practice time in at all thanks to his stupid shenanigans, trying to teach him a lesson. What a goddamn joke. It would almost have been better if he hadn’t gone at all; instead he could have gone to the gym and at least worked with one of the punching bags. _Asshole_.

He managed to rinse off in the shower and get dressed just in time for the rest of his team to begin filing in. He was shoving his dirty clothes into his bag when a large hand slapped him on the back. 

“Way to go, bud! Handled those reps like a champ!” Kakarot said cheerily as he meandered over to his own locker. “Looked like you were wiped there at the end, though!”

Vegeta glowered at him in return. “I was _fine_ ,” he snapped, zipping shut his duffel and hauling it over his shoulder. “And don’t fucking touch me, or next time I’ll break your goddamn arm.”

Kakarot attempted to reply again, but Vegeta had already turned and begun heading out the back door by the time he’d started his sentence. 

Despite his gut not wanting to let the old man win by getting angry over the situation, Vegeta’s mood was understandably soured. He stalked down the sidewalk in the direction of his dorm, his already unruly hair tousling in the freezing wind that whipped by him as he went. Martial arts was usually the highlight of his day, one of the only things that made getting out of bed and suffering through endless lectures worthwhile; the fact that it had ruined what had otherwise been an enjoyable day was almost satirical. 

He was so wrapped up in his own annoyance with how practice had gone that he didn’t even realize Raditz was calling his name until he was almost right next to him.

“Yo, Vegeta! I’ve been trying to get your attention for like ten minutes!” Raditz complained, nearly plowing into him as he jogged to catch up. Vegeta stifled a wince at his friend’s appearance, turning his face away. He was _not_ in the mood to exchange pleasantries with this doofus. “You trying to avoid me or something?”

“Yes,” Vegeta said humorlessly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants as another burst of cold wind snapped by, sending dead leaves flying in its wake. “What do you want?”

Raditz shrugged good-naturedly as his own bushy locks blew around messily. “Haven’t seen you in a while, is all,” he said. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, and although he had a heavy jacket on, he had neglected to zip it up, making Vegeta wonder what the fucking point was. He was carrying a textbook casually in one hand, too; he must have been coming from class. “Saw you walking and wanted to touch base. What’s been up?”

“Nothing,” came the flat answer. He didn’t want to shoot the shit with Raditz. What he wanted to do was go back to his dorm and get something to eat. “Same old bullshit.”

Raditz laughed at that, as though he’d said something even remotely amusing. “Yeah, me too. Ready for this fucking semester to end,” he said, watching as a group of girls tittered by, huddled into their jackets for warmth. “We should be having a party back at the house soon. You know, to celebrate the end of classes. You should go.”

Vegeta knew that when Raditz said “the house”, he was referring to the frat house right off campus. There was no way they would be able to accommodate any kind of sizeable get-together in the little apartment he and Nappa shared. He also knew he wanted nothing less than to deal with a bunch of his obnoxious frat brothers and the drunken girls that flocked to their parties. He raised his upper lip in an annoyed sneer, but gave no other response, choosing instead to focus on his shoes as they walked. Raditz took this as an opportunity to continue talking, as though Vegeta’s silence was an indication of his possible interest.

“You know, one last chance to get smashed and pick up some girls before winter break. We both know you won’t get to do any of that shit while you’re home,” he said with a short laugh. Vegeta bristled. He didn’t want to be reminded of what awaited him back in Central City, especially not when his day was already going to shit. Thinking about going home for break was a surefire way to _really_ plunge him into a dark mood.

Raditz rambled on as they came over the crest of a hill, passing other groups of students on their own way to various parts of the campus. With the onset of winter quickly arriving, the usual lush greenery was dead and gone, leaving bare branches to shudder in incessant cold wind. The open sides of Raditz’s jacket whipped around as a passing gust picked up speed. “Besides, when was the last time you hooked up with anyone? It’s got to have been fucking _ages_ . Unless you’ve been holding out on us.” He paused briefly. “Wait, _have_ you been holding out on us?”

“I’m not _holding out_ on you, asshole,” Vegeta bit back, squeezing his eyes shut in annoyance. He could feel a headache beginning to form behind his eyes, and was growing more irritated the longer the conversation lasted. “Why the fuck do you care, anyway?”

“Oh, yeah? Who the fuck is that, then?”

Vegeta’s eyes snapped back open. “What?” he asked, but saw who Raditz was referring to without any need for explanation. Bulma was walking in a small group of people a few hundred feet away, a scarf wrapped around her neck and a bulky sweater pulled tight around her torso. She had her bag lugged over her shoulder, the tops of textbooks and loose bits of notebook paper spilling out the top, and despite her companions talking animatedly at her, her attention had turned directly to him and Raditz. She caught his eye as he looked at her and smiled at him, raising a hand to wave before turning back to her friend as they continued their trek across the lawn.

Vegeta watched her go, his own pace slowing slightly despite himself. The stress and weight of his shitty practice seemed to lift slightly off his shoulders as he remembered how pleasantly his morning had gone: the way her lips felt against his neck, the warmth of her lithe, soft form pressed up against him. Maybe he _would_ text her later.

“That’s the blue haired chick from a couple months ago, isn’t it?” came Raditz’s demanding voice from beside him, reminding him that he, unfortunately, wasn’t alone. “You guys are still fucking, eh? No wonder you haven’t been around.”

Vegeta growled, shaking his head as he retook his brisk pace. “We’re not fucking, you moron,” he grumped, giving Raditz a dirty look over his shoulder. “I’ve already told you that. We have a class together. That’s it.”

This was technically true - after all, he and Bulma hadn’t had actual intercourse yet - but aside from Vegeta simply not wanting to include Raditz in any of his personal choices, he also had to respect the rules he and Bulma had created. The very first rule was to not involve family or friends in their arrangement; that meant Raditz needed to mind his goddamn business. 

“You know, after that time she came by the apartment looking for you, I tried to hit her up,” Raditz commented, matching Vegeta’s stride in just a few quick steps. He shoved his free hand into his pocket. “She never wanted to give me the time of day. Actually cussed me out once or twice, even threatened to hit me and shit if I didn’t leave her alone. Feisty little thing, she is.”

Vegeta fought a smirk. He remembered Bulma telling him on their first coffee outing that Raditz had been bothering her whenever he saw her around the quad, but she hadn’t told him that she’d threatened him with violence. It made him proud, in a bizarre kind of way. _You’re even stupider than I thought if you really believed you ever had a chance with her_ , he thought to himself.

“Still wouldn’t mind getting her into bed though,” Raditz remarked, and chuckled. “Can you imagine? Bet she’d ride me like a pro, with that fiery attitude she’s got. And just look at her! She’s fucking cute, don’t you think?”

Vegeta’s mouth thinned, but he opted not to say anything that would be construed as defensive, lest Raditz get suspicious about why he cared so damn much. “I don’t know. I guess.”

What he _did_ know was that he absolutely loathed the idea of Bulma physically being with anyone, especially Raditz. He didn’t think he had much to worry about in that arena - Raditz himself had said that Bulma had told him to fuck off on numerous occasions - but, still, the thought of her tangled up in bed, half naked against _Raditz_ made his stomach turn. 

He grit his teeth and forcefully pushed the thought away.

*****

With only two full weeks of classes left, Bulma knew she should have been studying for finals. Although she had not been spending as much time on her studies as she normally would (and should) have been, the workload was as outrageous as ever, meaning she was only digging herself deeper into a hole by not immediately tending to it. Comprehension wasn’t the issue, really; when in class, she was a competent as ever, often serving as a good resource for her classmates when they didn’t understand a concept or an exercise. She was always able to catch onto new teachings quickly, and had no trouble answering questions or completing assignments in class.

The trouble was her dedication to the ever rising levels of homework she had to keep up with. Unless she was in front of her professor, actively engaged in classwork with other people around her, Bulma was finding it hard to muster up enough drive to crack open a textbook. She loved her course of study, really - both mechanical engineering and computer science were things to which she had dedicated large swathes of her academic life, both topics she was still interested in and enjoyed - however, other things had also recently popped up in her social life that were proving a little more persuasive when deciding how she should spend her free time. 

That wasn’t to say she wasn’t trying to focus. The night before, she had spent a full two hours going through her _Material Science_ textbook, forcefully catching up on the past several chapters she hadn’t bothered to read or take notes on. Truthfully, though, that was just a drop in the bucket of a much larger workload that was pending her action: she had two papers to write for _Mechatronics_ , a final project to design for _Vibrations, Controls, and Optimization_ , a ridiculous amount of grammar work to study for Spanish, and at least a dozen chapters to read, outline, and dissect among the group of them. Even the work she put into _Material Science_ only lasted until Vegeta enigmatically texted her one of his trademark “xxx” messages - whose meaning she still did not entirely grasp, but which she kept forgetting to bring up in conversation with him - at which point she had dropped what she was doing and gone over to his apartment without a second thought, like an attention starved puppy whose name had been called.

If things with school were stressful at best, her ever evolving relationship with Vegeta at least seemed to be going well. It was true that they seemed to be the same as always in many respects: they still bickered with each other frequently, especially in class, and never let an opportunity to pick on the other go by without taking advantage; but they also managed to get along for large swatches of time, even when they weren’t connected by the lips. There had been a time or two that Bulma had gone to visit Vegeta, and instead of pulling his shirt off, they had ordered something to eat and watched television. It was bizarre, almost; aside from the random bouts of physical intimacy, one would almost think they were actually good friends.

The intimacy, though, was still worth acknowledging. Bulma had thought she would have to initiate any kind of physical affection, being that Vegeta had seemed so shy the first two or three times; however, as time wore on and he grew more comfortable, she realized that their first few encounters had not been truly representative of Vegeta’s bedroom persona. If anything, he wanted to be in the driver’s seat of those exchanges, and for once in her life Bulma was feeling okay about giving up the reigns.

Sex with Yamcha had been a difficult tightrope to walk. She’d had no experience prior to her relationship with him, so no basis off of which to establish any kind of sexual expectations. Instead she’d been left to trusting him, following his lead, and it had devolved into a very predictable situation: he would come over, she would suck him off for a little while, and then they would immediately dive into one of three canned positions, all of Yamcha’s choosing, none of which allowed her any authority in the matter. The fact that her enjoyment never seemed to be a focus of Yamcha’s intent with sex had made her wonder, after they’d broken up, if he had actually known how to pleasure a woman at all. She’d put up with his selfishness in the best interest of their relationship, but once it had ended a small part of her had felt relief.

When she and Vegeta had veered left down this bizarre path of sexual exploration, then, Bulma had initially thought it would be best if she manned the helm. She’d never been given that chance before, really, and this time around she was going to make sure she wasn’t used solely for the pursuit of her male partner’s enjoyment. However, after several weeks of experimentation, a few key things had become glaringly clear to her and had assuaged her doubts.

Vegeta plainly knew what he was doing. Although he had seemed reserved and nervous at the start, time had worn on and allowed him to catch his metaphorical footing, and it was now abundantly clear that he was _experienced_ , for lack of a better word. Nothing she could possibly throw at him seemed to trouble him, and he was surprisingly flexible in the face her curiosity. Really, she reasoned, this shouldn’t have been shocking; he was quite handsome, after all, and had surely broken his share of hearts during his tenure in high school and the first few years of college he’d spent in Central City. It went without saying that he would have had his share of sexual adventures by this point in his life.

The best part of this was that it meant he knew how to please her, how to make her writhe and moan, and was almost entirely focused on her pleasure any time they were together, nearly to the point of Bulma feeling a little put on the spot. If he hadn’t been so good with his mouth and his hands, she might have been embarrassed by the constant attention he paid her in bed; as it stood, she was usually too busy trying to avoid premature orgasm to pay much mind to anything else. They had been moving rather slowly in their advancement of sexual favors - only a day or two before had they acquiesed and agreed to allow oral sex to become part of the game - but she had not once felt bored or unsatisfied at any point during the journey to that point. If she was being truly honest, it was probably more than a little one sided in her favor.

Most important, though, was that Vegeta made her feel comfortable. There was no judgement on his face when her shirt came off, no derision in the way he looked at her as she boldly straddled his lap and urged his hands to explore her; he’d given her no reason to think that he didn’t enjoy her as much as she did him, and that realization had turned his presence into a calming one for her. She felt at home when she was with him, and was quickly finding herself getting sucked into a familiar emotional whirlpool. 

She could recognize that she was quickly becoming partial to him, finding that any time not physically with him was spent thinking about when she would see him again. The obnoxious little voice in the back of Bulma’s mind had begun suggesting to tap the brakes a bit before she found herself plunging headfirst into what would surely be a one-sided love affair. She had justified her choices, though, in that she still had time to figure the emotional implications out. They were just having fun, still. She wasn’t _in love_ with him, after all; if anything, it was a harmless little crush. Either way, she could handle it.

“Hey, Bulma!”

Bulma started, jumping to sit up straight in her chair. She was at her favorite table in the campus library, doubled over an algorithms assignment - or had been, until she’d allowed herself to wander off down daydream lane. She wiped the side of her mouth and looked over at the person responsible for dragging her back down to planet Earth. “Goku, do you ever go to class?”

“‘Course I do,” he said jovially, plopping down in the seat across from her. He dumped his bag noisily on the table in front of him. “Just got out, actually. Some math class or something. Pretty boring.”

She snorted, shuffling up the papers she had been sprawled over. “You’re lucky you’re good at sports, or else there is no way you’d ever get through some of these courses,” she said dryly, fixing him with a raised eyebrow. 

He grinned childishly, raking a hand through the back of his messy hair. “Yeah, some of the professors are real nice and help me out,” he agreed sheepishly. “But, ya know, I’d do the same for them. At least the semester is almost done.”

“Yeah, thankfully,” she sighed in agreement, glancing at her watch. It was after 2:30 by that point, meaning she needed to start heading to Spanish. She closed her textbook. “Well, I should get going. I’ve got Spanish in a few minutes.”

“Isn’t that the class you have with Vegeta?”

She paused, glancing over at him as she began packing her things into her bag. “Yes, it is. Why do you ask?”

He lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. “Just wondered. I know you two have been spending a lot of time together, is all,” he said. The feigned innocence with which he said the comment would have been believable had Bulma not caught the shadow of a grin at the corner of his mouth.

She ignored it, not in the mood to delve into what would ultimately be Goku trying to tease details out of her. She wasn’t sure how he knew she’d been spending time with Vegeta, but was certain anything she told him would ultimately reach Chi Chi’s ears. She wasn’t sure she was prepared for a tongue lashing from her. “We should make plans over break,” she said instead, giving him a smile as she tucked her notebook away. “I haven’t seen Chi Chi or Gohan since that tournament weeks ago. I’m sure my parents would love to have you guys over for dinner.”

“Oh man, I would love to have some of your mom’s cooking,” Goku said, suddenly excited. She suppressed a laugh; he was so easy to distract, it almost felt cruel. “Just tell me when! I’m sure Cheech will make something to take, too.”

“Okay,” Bulma agreed as she stood to leave. She swung her overloaded school bag over her shoulder. “I’ll let you know after I’ve spoken to them. See you around campus.”

“Bye, Bulma!” he called from over her shoulder as she headed towards the exit, warranting an irritated “shh!” from multiple surrounding tables. 

A strong gust of freezing air met Bulma as she exited the library building, sending her hair into a frenzy. In the months since school had started her hair had grown considerably quickly, and currently sat right above her shoulders. She had planned to chop it off again over winter break, but had noticed that Vegeta liked to weave it through his fingers when he thought she wasn’t paying attention, and now wondered whether she should let it grow.

The walk across campus was brisk and gray. Winter had definitely fallen upon South City, and although the weather could have been considered mild compared to the winters she had experienced farther north, it was unpleasant all the same. By the time she reached the liberal arts building her face was red and chapped, and her fingers frozen in the grip she had around the strap of her bag. She shuffled down the hall to room 9056A and made a mental note to invest in some gloves and a hat the next time she was in town.

Bulma turned to walk into the classroom on autopilot, intending to head straight to the back of the room where she normally sat next to Vegeta, but instead found that all the tables had been pushed to the far side of the room, leaving the lecture hall largely empty. She was still a few minutes early, but some people had already arrived and were milling around the space, their belongings left in piles on the abandoned tables along the edges of the room. It wasn’t until she fully entered and saw the large message on the whiteboard at the front of the room that she understood: scrawled haphazardly across the board, in large red letters, were the words _LATIN DANCING_.

“Ready to dance, Miss Briefs?” her stout professor asked cheerfully by her elbow as she sauntered past, towards the podium near the whiteboard. 

Amused, Bulma took a few steps after her. “Are we really dancing today?” Dancing had never been anything Bulma had primarily been interested in, but she also wasn’t going to say no to giving it a shot. 

“We _are_! I thought we could use a break from preparation for finals, if just for a day,” the short woman explained, pulling a small cassette player out of her bag and setting it on the podium. “We’ll break off into partners and go through a couple basic steps of the most popular dances. It will give you some exposure to the music, as well.”

It hadn’t been till the mention of partners was raised that Bulma remembered Vegeta. She turned abruptly, eyes sweeping the classroom, and found him leaning against a table in the back of the room, arms crossed. Without another word to her professor, she made a beeline for him.

“Hey, _partner_ ,” she said genially, a grin escaping her as she put her things on the table. She suspected he wasn’t going to be as willing to participate in this impromptu lesson as she was, and was keen on ribbing him while she had the chance.

Vegeta cocked an eyebrow at her. “Partner?” he quoted. She noticed he wasn’t dressed in his usual gym gear, but instead had on a pair of dark jeans and a simple long sleeved shirt. Now that she had actually seen him without a shirt on, it had become even easier to mentally undress him. Not that she ever did that, of course. “Partner for what?”

“For dancing, duh,” she said, hoisting herself up onto the table to take a seat while they waited for the class to commence. “Snyder said we have to break off into groups of two. Unless you don’t want to be my partner, that is.”

“I don’t dance.”

She flashed him a cheeky grin, all teeth, as she swung her feet back and forth. “Well, today you will!”

“I don’t give a shit what that old bat says, I’m _not_ dancing,” he said flatly, giving her a dark stare. Had she not known him at all, she may have found his grouchy tone and grimace intimidating. Unfortunately for him, she found it rather endearing. “This is rookie bullshit. Find someone else.”

Bulma tittered at his irritation, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear as she observed him. “Then why are you here? That’s the whole plan for class today. If you’re not into it, you should skip.”

“Tch.” He rolled his eyes blithely and tightened his crossed arms. “I can’t miss any more class hours. I’ll stay, but I’m not doing it.”

“Oh, come on, then! If you’re going to stick around, you should at least be my partner,” she teased, elbowing him in the ribs gently. He growled at her. “Vegeta, loosen up! It could be fun.”

“It’s not,” he snapped back.

At the front of the room, Professor Snyder clapped her hands a few times to garner silence amongst the quickly growing crowd of students. The majority of Bulma’s peers had wandered into the room by that point, grouping into small factions around the large space. 

“Have it your way, then. I’ll find another handsome man to be my partner,” she sighed dramatically in a lowered tone, prompting another scoff from Vegeta.

“Okay, everyone!” Snyder called clearly from her place on the podium. She was so short that her face just barely cleared the top of it; all the same, she had an impressive voice that carried clearly across the room, cutting through the multiple conversations taking place amongst the students. “Quiet, please! As you can see, we’re changing things up a bit today, and I’d like to take full advantage of the time we have, so please, attention!”

The smattering of talking and laughing quickly died away as people turned to face the slight woman. There was a nervous energy among the students that often accompanied surprises, and it seemed contagious: the normally dour professor smiled at them as quiet blanketed the group. “Alright! Since we’ve been spending so much time reviewing and preparing for finals, I thought we could take a quick break before really buckling down next week to do something both fun and culturally relevant. We’ve done a lot of talking about the language itself, but haven’t done much in the way of Hispanic culture. Dancing is a huge part of any Spanish speaking country, and I thought it could be a fun way to spend class today. Go ahead and partner off, and we’ll start with the most popular dance: salsa!”

Chatter broke out amongst the group once more as people began pairing off. Bulma looked pointedly at Vegeta, who was still standing with his arms crossed, a sour look on his face. 

“Vegeta,” she cajoled, setting a hand on the crook of his elbow. “Are you _sure_ you don’t want to come dance with me?”

“No,” he said shortly, refusing to look at her. “I told you, I’m not dancing.”

She shrugged and jumped off the table. “Okay, fine. If you’re sure,” she said, patting his arm. “At least watch my things, then.”

He grunted but said nothing more, prompting her to leave his pity party and venture out to find a different partner to dance with. It took her all of thirty seconds to find a consenting classmate - a tall, athletic looking guy a year or two younger than her who she recognized from the basketball team - and the two of them shuffled to the back of the group waiting for further instruction from their professor.

“Have you ever done any latin dancing?” her partner, Barry, asked as they waited. He was, indeed, a handsome guy, if not a little lanky. Nonetheless, he had an easy air about him that Bulma quite liked. 

Bulma shook her head with a smile. “No. Actually, I’m a terrible dancer, so we’ll see how this plays out,” she said, and laughed. 

“Okay, everyone!” Snyder announced from the podium again. “It looks like we all have partners now. The first thing you want to do is face your partner. Now, men, you will lead, and ladies, you should follow. I’ll show you an example up front here first, and then we’ll put on the music and give it a try, okay?”

The professor gave a short explanation of the steps using another classmate as a volunteer partner. Bulma thought it looked easy enough - start in the neutral position, and then either step forward or backwards before returning to that neutral position - but once the music started and it was their turn to give it a try, she quickly learned that she was not the only unskilled dancer in the room.

“ _Ouch!_ ” she complained ten minutes later as Barry stepped on her foot for the third time. He winced apologetically, quickly stepping to the side.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said hastily, pulling his hand from where it had been resting on her hip to rustle his fingers nervously through his shaggy blonde hair. “This is harder than it looks!”

“Let’s start off by focusing on not crushing my feet, eh?” Bulma suggested wryly. Around them, their classmates seemed to be in various stages of struggles themselves, as people stumbled and giggled at their inability to catch onto the rhythm. Salsa music played vibrantly in the background, a bizarre soundtrack to her irritation. “Don’t stare down at the floor so much. You’re trying too hard and thinking too much.”

“I’m just confused as to how - ”

“You go forward, I go back, then we both go back to the starting stance!” Bulma explained yet again, trying her best not to let her annoyance color her tone. She was usually rather good tempered when explaining things, but the pain of being trod on multiple times by someone much larger than her was waning on her patience. “Look, let’s start over again - ”

“If you’re feeling daring, add in a twirl!” Snyder called over the music from the front of the room as she sashayed easily back and forth to the beat of the song. Bulma groaned inwardly.

Barry straightened, resting his large palm against the side of her hip again and using his other hand to take one of her own in a gentle but firm grip. He exhaled evenly through his mouth. “Okay, let’s try again,” he said, nodding. The cute look of innocent determination on his face almost zapped the aggravation she was feeling. 

Bulma cleared her throat, waiting for the right time in the music before beginning again. “Okay, here we go…” she said, and hesitantly began moving in time with him once again. “One, two, back to neutral, four, five, back to - _owww_!”

“Oh, shit! Bulma, I’m - ”

“You’re fucking it up. Move,” came a familiar growl to the left of them. Bulma’s head snapped to the side quick enough to have given her whiplash, already knowing who it was without needing to see him. Vegeta was standing rigidly next to them, a glare fixed on Barry. 

Confused, Barry looked between Vegeta and Bulma. She could almost see his thoughts in his expression as he processed the situation. Who the hell was this guy? Where had he come from? Where they _together_ ? His failure to immediately respond prompted an annoyed snarl from Vegeta. “Are you deaf? I said _move_!”

“Okay, okay, jeez,” Barry said, dropping Bulma’s hand immediately and stepping out of the way. Despite the impressive height different, the attitude that radiated from Vegeta was not often something people were willing to test. Vegeta stepped into Barry’s place as he backed away, grabbing Bulma’s dropped hand and placing his other firmly at the small of her back.

“Vegeta, that wasn’t very nice,” she chided, watching Barry hesitate before drifting to the far side of the room, weaving through their classmates. “Besides, who says I want to dance with you anymore? You rejected me, remember?”

“If you’d rather that idiot continue stomping all over you, feel free to run after him,” he responded roughly. Despite his testy demeanor, there was an aloof quality to his expression that made her think he was mocking her somehow. 

Amused, Bulma smirked at him. “So, you _were_ watching, huh?” she teased as he stepped in close to her. The familiar smell of his cologne sent a butterfly spiraling through her gut. She knew the scent, an earthy fragrance reminiscent of sandalwood, would surely envelope the shirt she was wearing, prompting her to hug it to her face later that evening when she was alone. It almost embarrassed her to admit it, even to herself.

"Yeah, watching that moron making a fool of himself," he grumbled evasively. He splayed his hand flat against her back suddenly, pulling her hand to hover in the air next to them, enclosed in his own. "Alright, Briefs, if I'm doing this shit, we're doing it right. Just follow my lead. Ready?"

Thrown by their sudden proximity, Bulma sputtered in response. “What the hell does that mean?” she managed to ask, right before he began moving.

Without further warning, Vegeta swung them into motion, and Bulma was immediately lost. His feet and legs were moving too quickly and unpredictably for her to keep track of, but it was plain that he was doing a lot more than the simple “neutral, forward, neutral, backwards” steps that the Professor had mapped out for them in her example. After a moment or two of desperate observation, it became apparent that his steps were part of a larger pattern somehow, but the combination was too complex for her to pick up on the fly to try to mimic.

Instead, he did most of the movement for the both of them; as he moved in time with the music, he pulled Bulma into him, then flung her back out, then twirled her in a circle before bringing her back in again. It might have been nauseating had she not been so perplexed by the fact that he was literally dancing circles around her.

“Why didn’t you tell me you could dance?” she managed to half yell at him as he spun her in another circle before yanking her back towards himself like a yo-yo. 

“This would work better if you weren’t so fucking stiff,” he complained back at her in typical Vegeta fashion, avoiding the question altogether.

The song at the front of the room quickly cut short, prompting Vegeta’s rapid pace to slow, as more clapping commenced from Professor Snyder. “Okay, very well done, everyone! Now that we’ve had a go at salsa, we’re going to move on to another very popular dance which you may or may not know, called _bachata_. Now, bachata originated a little over a hundred years ago, with…”

As Snyder launched into her explanations of how the dance started and what the basic steps were, Bulma stared at Vegeta’s stubborn profile. He was pointedly ignoring her, she knew, feigning interest in whatever was being said at the podium to evade her probing questions. How could she not have a million questions after that little spectacle? She had imagined he didn’t want to dance because he didn’t know how, _not_ because he was too goddamn good. She scowled at him vaguely. Would she ever get to a point where Vegeta didn’t constantly surprise her with bizarre skills? Or, maybe the better question was, did she _want_ to get to that point? There was something insanely alluring about the enigma he presented. She knew it would have been a lie to say she wasn’t feeling incredibly attracted to him at that moment.

He turned back to her suddenly, and she realized she had missed the explanation for how bachata worked as music once again filled the room. This tune was different, though; more sultry, less peppy and up-tempo. She stared at him blankly, now acutely aware of his closeness again. It seemed like whatever this dance was, it would be a lot less spinning and sashaying.

“Did you get that?” he asked, amusement tugging the corners of his lips tight. Despite his initial reticence to participate in the activity, he very much looked like he was enjoying himself. 

“No.” She laughed, a tad nervous, cupping her forearm with one of her hands. “In case you couldn’t tell, I’m not a great dancer. How about you walk me through it?”

“I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” Bulma knew that Vegeta was at his happiest when he was picking on her, but the smugness on his face was almost too much to bear. He held an open hand out to her in invitation. 

Warily, she placed her hand in his. “Go slowly this time,” she said, a hint of a whine in her voice. “I’ve never done any of this before, and it’s no fun when you’re so much better than me.”

Vegeta disregarded her concerns and plowed on into his explanation. Around them, their classmates had already begun clumsily tiptoeing their way through the dance. “I’m leading, but as the woman you get more of the spotlight here, so at least pretend like you know what’s going on,” he said, and snatched her other hand from where it sat at her side. “Now, look. It starts off side to side. Left, left, left, left, right, right, right, right.”

Bulma stumbled after him as he jumped into action. It didn’t seem so hard: she would move one foot to the side, then the other would follow, then do the same thing once more in the same direction before starting back the other way. Luckily he repeated the cycle once or twice so she could get a good grip on it before pulling her to a halt again.

“Briefs, you need to move your body a little. I told you if I’m doing this I’m doing it right, and you’re too fucking rigid,” he griped, annoyance wrinkling his forehead. “Swing your hips a little, move your arms - _something_.”

Bulma stamped her food in agitation. “Vegeta, you need to be patient with me! I’ve never seen this goddamn dance before - ”

He cut through her complaint with a dismissive _tch_ . “Fucking _fine_ , then just follow me.” He twirled her in a circle again, but pulled her back against him before she could fully rotate so that his chest was pressed up against her back. One of his hands, the one he had been using to primarily lead, was still gripping one of hers; the other, though, had moved south to her hip, pinning her in position against him. “It’s the same goddamn steps, so don’t freak out. Just follow the way I move.”

Bulma’s heart had kicked into overdrive in the two seconds that their proximity had changed again. When he spoke she could feel the heat of his breath against her earlobe, tickling her slightly and sending goosebumps dancing down her neck. She fought a shudder. 

Before she could protest, Vegeta was moving again, and she was again forced to try to follow along. Vegeta had been right that it was easier to copy his motions when he was pressed so tightly against her - really, it would have been more difficult _not_ to follow his movement at this point - but concentrating on the dance was something different entirely. His hips rubbed up against her backside as they ambled from side to side, and his cheek was pressed against the back of her head, and she was acutely aware that the hand that had started on her hip had begun to slowly migrate south down her thigh. By the time he pulled her to a stop she found that she was short of breath, and knew damn well it had nothing to do with physical exertion and everything to do with the overwhelming urge she was fighting to drag him across campus to her bedroom.

“Stick to science, Briefs,” Vegeta said with a lopsided smirk, misinterpreting the blush that had colored her cheeks as Professor Snyder cut the music for a second time. Bulma cleared her throat and laughed, hoping she wasn’t as desperately transparent as she felt. “You’re _not_ a dancer.”

“Yeah, I guess not…”

Vegeta complained his way through two more dances - merengue and cumbia, both up tempo cheerful routines whose music Bulma rather enjoyed - before their professor called it quits for the day. 

“Thanks for your effort today, everyone!” the short woman called from the front of the room as the class gathered their things, chatting amiably. “Please come ready to do some serious preparations for finals next week!”

“Where are you going right now?” Bulma asked Vegeta as she grabbed her things from where she’d left them on the table at the back of the room. Forty something minutes of being pressed up against him had left her flushed and bothered, and she was finding it difficult to meet his eyes without blushing further. Vegeta ambled after her, hands in his pockets. 

“Nowhere. The library, maybe. Why?” Looking at him now, one never would have imagined he’d just spent the better part of an hour pulling Bulma through several different complicated dances. Far from looking tired, he looked rather bored now that his opportunity to tease her had ended. He leaned against the table, bookbag slung over his shoulder, as she hauled her own heavy bag onto her arm.

“Can you come with me, for just a second? I want to show you something,” she said cryptically. He raised an eyebrow at her but didn’t protest when she grabbed him by the elbow and practically dragged from the classroom.

Bulma didn’t know the liberal arts building as well as she did the science hall, but had walked down the main hallway enough to know that there was a number of focus rooms scattered down it, and that at this time of day there was bound to be at least one free. Sure enough, the second one they came upon had its lights off and door open. She pushed Vegeta inside, heart thumping wildly, and shut the door roughly behind them before she could think better of what she was about to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"But then she goes, she goes by_  
>  _In the corner of the sky_  
>  _Like a seagull, she flies high_  
>  _'Cause she's always on my mind_  
>  _What if I could be somebody else?_  
>  _'Cause lately I've been thinking way too much_  
>  _I was hoping you could take me away for good"_  
>   
>  This chapter was originally going to be much longer, but I decided to cut it into two to not be too long winded. I had been planning to do this little dance side story for a while, because the idea of Vegeta being a talented latin dancer seriously tickles my fancy. Have you ever seen those amazing salsa or bachata dance competitions? LAWD.
> 
> Also, did anyone catch the inclusion of a tertiary Z character in here? For some reason I always really love when small parts of the anime or manga are casually dropped into fanfic. (:
> 
> Next chapter will be up in two weeks! Thanks for your patience, and for continuing to read my story!


	12. A Complication

“What the fuck do you want to show me in  _ here _ ?” Vegeta complained, turning to stare at Bulma as she dumped her bag to the floor and fumbled with the door lock. Her fingers felt overly large and clumsy, like they weren't really her own, and she was nervous somehow, which she knew was stupid: she'd kissed him before, dozens of times by this point. There was no reason to get the jitters. She forced a steadying breath through her nose.  _ Chill _ . 

Before she turned away she noted with relief that the only pane of glass that decorated the door was frosted, marring their figures from plain view in the hallway, which relieved her of having to tape a piece of paper over it. She spun to face him as he continued issuing a stream of complaints. “Briefs, I don’t have patience for your fucking games - ”

Before she lost her nerve completely, Bulma grabbed the hem of her corded sweater and pulled it gracelessly over her head, leaving her in a camisole. “God, shut  _ up _ ,” she breathed, and to ensure he obeyed, pressed herself against the length of his torso and crushed her mouth against his.

Being that they were in a semi-public place and not in the sanctity of his dorm, she had half expected Vegeta to push her away and chide her for being so brash. He did initially resist, his lips not immediately responding to her bold advances; surprisingly quickly, though, his posture softened to mold against her and she felt his hands creep around her sides to rest against her hips, allowing his own bag to clatter from his shoulder to a nearby chair. Emboldened, she parted her lips only to find his tongue already waiting to meet hers. Her stomach melted in relief at his recriprocation; she knew it was stupid, really, but any and every time he confirmed that the interest she had in him was mutual, she wanted to jump for joy. 

She kissed him hungrily, finally able to abet the terrible need that had been building in her over the past hour to not only be close to him, but to touch and feel him and have him return the favor. Her hands grappled at his shoulders and cupped his jaw, pulling him closer. The room around them and background noises of people passing by in the hallway outside faded;  it was stunning how easy it was to let everything else fade to the periphery when she found herself on the receiving end of his attention.

Almost as though in spite of her eagerness, Vegeta’s movements were slow and meditated, painstakingly intentional. His hands explored her idly as he kissed her, running smoothly over her waist, fingers teasing the edge of her tank top before continuing upwards to cup one of her breasts through her shirt and give it a probing squeeze. His touch was warm and gentle, all calm confidence, but the lack of urgency in his approach was driving her mad. She wanted him to take charge, to hoist her onto a table and have his way with her, but she knew he wouldn’t; whereas her restraint flew straight out the window anytime he touched her, Vegeta seemed to be infuriatingly in control of himself at all times.

Intent on encouraging him, Bulma ground her hips against his, knowing he had to be erect somewhere under the armor that was his tranquil demeanor and dark washed jeans. He smirked against her mouth and bit her bottom lip in response, refusing to be baited. “Don’t play with me, Briefs.”

“I thought that was the point?” she moaned as his attention moved to her neck. He chuckled against her skin but said nothing further, instead occupying his mouth by laying teasing kisses down the length of her collarbone. The hand that had been cupping her bust wandered back to the edge of her tank top, but dove underneath this time without hesitation, and was soon pulling her bra up. 

"Is this what you want?" 

She suppressed a groan. How could he deny her advances and then come back at her with several of his own? He palmed her breast, squeezing delicately, all the while still nipping at the skin at the base of her neck. Her breathing accelerated as his kisses became more urgent, before he abruptly began teasing her nipple between his fingertips. It was too much. Desire reared in her stomach and bubbled over the bucket she’d been attempting to keep it confined to, prompting one of her own hands to drift south to the button of his jeans. She knew he liked to set the tone for their hookups, but dammit, she wanted to play, too. This was not a one man show, after all. 

Vegeta’s reaction was immediate. He removed his hand from her shirt and instead knotted his fingers into the back of her hair, yanking her head back abruptly to look at her. “Vulgar woman,” he susurred, his cheeks flushed and eyes half lidded as they peered down at her. He cleared his throat. “We… we shouldn’t be doing this. Not here.”

_ Ah _ . There it was: the objection she’d been expecting since the beginning. She was too far gone to be rejected at this point, though, prudence be damned. “You didn’t seem to mind just a moment ago,” she taunted lowly, and reached out to cup the crotch of his jeans with one of her palms. She was perhaps pushing the boundaries, she knew, but that was half the fun of these interactions. She was sure Vegeta had a tipping point, but was just yet to find it. It didn’t help that they were still so  _ close _ ; she could have barely leaned forward and kissed him again, and was half tempted to as he studied her silently. 

Taking his lack of outright rejection as a possible opportunity, she continued, “Don’t say I’m wrong. Here’s the evidence to prove it,” and gave the bulge in his pants a gentle squeeze.

He watched her for another quiet moment, smirking at her gall, and she wondered how quickly he was weighing the pros and cons of relenting to her behind the unflinching mask of his calm expression. He was getting too good at deflecting her attempts to embarrass him; weeks prior, her hand anywhere near the crotch of his pants would have painted his entire face a pleasant fuschia color.

His grip on her hair slackened slowly, and his hand shifted to a comfortable spot below her ear instead. “And what are you going to do about it?” he murmured, his thumb brushing gently over her bottom lip. A thrill shot through her gut. Her fingers made their way back up to the button in his pants and this time there was no rebuttal from him.

“Well, that depends...” Her voice was hushed, mirroring the low tone Vegeta had adopted. She lowered into a crouch to deftly undo his jeans and slide down the zipper, all the while maintaining eye contact, almost afraid he was going to call it off at any minute. “How daring are you feeling today?”

The nerves she had felt minutes before were gone, and had been replaced by an adrenaline induced recklessness she couldn’t quite explain. There was an allure to the risk in what they were doing, to the possibility that someone could knock on the door and interrupt them at any minute, although that hadn’t been Bulma’s intent when she’d dragged him into the focus room; really all she’d wanted was to kiss him before her brain short circuited completely from the mess he’d made of it during their Spanish lesson. Now that the situation had escalated so quickly, she was halfway tempted to unlock the door just to add an extra layer of danger. Who cared if anyone walked in on them? She didn’t. She wanted everyone to know, damnit.

Bulma knew he wanted it, if only from the erection now clearly visible through his exposed boxer briefs. She had felt his dick beneath his clothes before but hadn’t yet really interacted with it directly; Vegeta had been much more forward in exploring her intimate bits, both with his hands and his mouth, than she had dared to reciprocate. It was high time she returned the favor. His breathing had grown shallow and his mouth slightly slack, and when she finally pulled the length of his hard-on free from his boxer shorts, she could have sworn he moaned under his breath. 

"How’s this?" she asked softly, gently wrapping her hand around his cock and giving it a few slow pumps to elicit a reaction. She carefully watched his expression. "Tell me you want it." 

"Bulma," he groaned in complaint, letting his head roll back onto his shoulders to face skyward. His shirt pulled up just the slightest bit, exposing a fraction of his taut abdomen. "Fucking yes, I want it.  _ Please _ ." 

Hearing the way her name rolled off his tongue was always pleasant, but in this arena it was downright seductive. Seeing him like this, squirming under her touch, was more than satisfying; at the very least it meant she was doing something right. Heart pounding solidly, she leaned forward without further hesitation and dragged her tongue up the length of his shaft, pausing at the sensitive skin under the tip. Vegeta let loose a low hiss from up above her, his hand again tangling in her hair.

Goaded by this reaction, she leaned forward and took the head into her mouth delicately. It had been a good while since she’d gotten up close and personal with anyone’s penis, and even then she couldn’t say for sure whether she’d been doing it right; Yamcha had never really been one for communication. She’d always tried her hardest to please him, for sure, but it was hard to know whether she was doing a good job or not when he never wanted to give her any feedback. 

Oh well. It was too late at this point for second thoughts. One hand straddling his thigh for stability, Bulma swallowed him deeper, allowing her other hand to move in time with her mouth as it moved up and down. Vegeta made an unattractive noise from above.

“Ah,  _ fuck _ \- ” His voice was low and gravelly, tinged with an exigency Bulma hadn’t heard from him before. His hand nudged the back of her head, urging her to go lower, and she complied, prompting another sharp intake of breath. She was doing her best to concentrate on not choking, which she doubted would be sexy, but was also finding his enthusiasm to be contagious; the closer his dick came to the back of her gullet the tighter he wound his fingers into her hair. His hips began to rock against her in time with her bobbing head until she had to press her hand firmly against his waist to steady his movements.

How long had it been since he’d been touched by someone this way? Whatever the answer, she again recognized that it wasn’t for lack of willing participants, but rather because of Vegeta’s uptight attitude. How many women he had even been with? What qualified them, in his mind, to be worthy of his attention? How had  _ she _ made the cut? She made a mental note to inquire further on these topics when his cock wasn’t halfway down her throat.

Her head bobbed up and down indulgently as the hand she’d enclosed around the girth of his erection stroked with increasing speed. Air whistled through Vegeta’s lips like a kettle in an attempt to stifle a moan, and he grasped her shoulder with his free hand to steady himself. “Bulma,” he groaned in an exhale. She flicked her eyes up at him without slowing. “Bulma, wait - ”

“Uh-uh,” she denied without bothering to remove his dick from her mouth first, vibrating around it instead. She suspected she knew why he wanted her to slow down, but wasn’t going to help him save face when he’d reduced her to a puddle of nerves so many times already. Even if her jaw was beginning to ache, she was determined to see this through to the end. Her hand, slick with her own spit conveniently serving as lube, squeezed just the slightest bit more firmly. 

Vegeta’s mouth gaped wordlessly before he clenched his jaw, protesting through his teeth, “No,  _ fuck _ \- woman, stop, I - I’m going to - ”

Within the span of half a second, two things happened. First, and most importantly, Vegeta let loose a low moan and came down the back of Bulma’s throat. She had known it was imminent and thus wasn’t bothered when she felt an unfamiliar warmth collect on her tongue, even if she wasn’t the biggest fan of the way cum tasted; if anything, it should have been cause for celebration. She’d actually managed to get  _ him  _ to orgasm this time, and much more quickly than she’d imagined. Maybe her oral skills weren’t as lacking as she’d worried. 

Nearly simultaneously there was a loud knock on the door followed immediately by the noisy rattling of the still-locked door handle. She whipped Vegeta’s still semi-erect cock from her mouth and spun her head around, startled by the reminder that they were, indeed, still in the liberal arts building.

“Ah, shit!” she cursed under her breath, wiping the side of her mouth as she jumped up and turned in circles, looking for the sweater she’d abandoned as soon as they’d entered. She heard Vegeta close his zipper as he yanked his pants back up.

“Here," he croaked, nabbing her top from where it lay on the ground in a crumpled pile and tossing it to her. His face was flushed with emotion and he looked generally disconcerted, like a drunk who had woken up after a bender in a place he didn’t recognize. He dawdled for a moment, watching her tug her sweater back on, before there was a second knock at the door and his signature scowl abruptly returned.

Vegeta crossed the space to the door in three quick steps and wrenched it open without further ado. “What?” he snapped. From where Bulma stood, she could see a pair of guys standing on the other side of the door. The one closest to Vegeta, dark haired and bespectacled, flinched in the face of such an unwelcome greeting.

“I, erh, I was just checking to see if anybody was in here,” he explained nervously, looking very much like he regretted that decision now. He cleared his throat noisily. “We wanted to use - ”

“Do you fucking have eyes? Could you not see that the light was on?” Vegeta’s vehement response cut straight through his explanation, leaving the younger man to stare. “Room’s occupied. Get lost.”

Before they could argue any further, Vegeta slammed the door shut again with a mumbled, “ _ Assholes _ .”

A prompt silence descended upon them. Bulma stood next to a table, watching him as he leaned against the door for a moment, seemingly pensive, before sauntering slowly over to where his discarded bag lay on a chair. Were things going to be awkward now? She didn’t see why they had to be, but there was no denying that the warm excitement that had filled the atmosphere even seconds prior had drained from the space, leaving an uncomfortable coldness in its wake. 

“Bulma.”

She looked at him, just a few feet away, heart hammering. His expression was difficult to read.

“Yeah?”

He didn’t respond, and silence filled the gap between them again. Self-consciousness threatened to creep past the outskirts of her mind as the seconds ticked by and it stretched on; had she done something wrong? Was he trying to think of how to let her down as gently as possible? He’d certainly seemed like he’d been enjoying himself...

Her concerns proved worthless a heartbeat later, when Vegeta cleared his throat again and stood fully, slinging his bag back over his shoulder. “Let’s go, Briefs. I’ll walk you back,” came his surly offer, quickly accompanied by a disarming smirk. “Unless you want to stay here to study. We both know your Spanish could use the extra attention.”

Bulma’s worry softened to a scoff at his teasing, secretly relieved. “You get to carry my bag for that,” she complained childishly, but smiled when he accepted the heavy school bag without complaint. 

It wasn't until they had already left the liberal arts building and were walking across the gray campus, clothes snapping in the frigid wind, that Bulma remembered a question she’d asked earlier and still hadn’t gotten an answer to. "Vegeta," she said suddenly, pushing her hair out of her eyes as a fresh gust of wind sent it tumbling across her face. "Where the  _ hell _ did you learn to dance?" 

***

Vegeta had always considered himself a well-grounded, reasonable person, but just a few weeks of time with Bulma was quickly teaching him that he might have been wrong in that assessment. Would a sound person get a blow job from what was basically their friends-with-benefits in a glorified closet, while dozens of people milled about in the hallway just outside? Better yet, would they get sexually involved with a friend to begin with, knowing they would basically be dropping off the planet in six months? No, they decidedly wouldn’t.

And yet, here he was, still reeling three hours after the fact from what had turned out to be an embarrassingly quick climax. He hadn’t been thinking logically - or, really,  _ at all _ \- when he’d acquiesced to Bulma’s stereotypically impulsive request, and even though he had obviously enjoyed it, he was beginning to question his own sanity. This was not normal Vegeta behavior; sixteen-year-old high school Vegeta, yes, but not twenty-three-year-old, regimented, has-a-schedule-and-keeps-to-it Vegeta. That Vegeta went to the gym before the sun came up, spent half his day in martial arts practice, and got his classwork done in between. He did  _ not  _ blow a load down a girl’s throat, almost get caught, and then feel tempted to bend her over a table and keep going at it anyway. That sounded more like something Raditz would do. He cringed at the realization.

Even in the fogginess of his post-orgasm haze, he’d been able to see that he was being uncharacteristically capricious. Bulma was impetuous, which was something he had known since she’d barged into his apartment uninvited when he’d had the flu; but  _ he _ was stable, reliable, and in control! Aside from the occasional drink, he didn’t give into base impulses, not anymore. He had more important priorities at hand. He should have given her a firm denial, or insisted that they carry on in a more private venue; after all, hadn’t rule number three stated they had to respect when the other person said no? They needed to stay within the confines of those boundaries established by their agreed to rules. Without them there was no telling what he’d end up involved in.

Instead of sitting down to think through or - God forbid -  _ talk to Bulma _ about his feelings, Vegeta had chosen to deal with the situation the only way he knew how: by murdering himself in the gym immediately afterwards. As promised, he walked Bulma back to her dorm, then headed directly back to his own apartment to grab his gym bag and go to the weight room. Literal hours and one shower later, he was sore and tired, but generally feeling much better.

“Have you seen Raditz today?” Nappa asked in the locker room after they’d wrapped up their session, exiting the showers with a towel knotted around his thick waist. Vegeta had reverted back to using Nappa as his gym partner as soon as he’d gotten over whatever flu bug he’d been fighting. He wouldn’t have told him so, but he was relieved to have him back. They’d barely said two sentences to each other the entire evening, which was just to his liking.

Vegeta nearly choked on the derision in his response. “ _ Tch _ . No. Haven’t seen that moron since Saturday,” he growled, digging around in his bag for a clean shirt. “Dumbass caught me leaving practice and tried to get me to go whore hunting with him.”

Nappa pulled the towel from his midsection to pat his bald head dry, looking pensive. “Weird. I haven’t seen him much lately, either, and I fucking live with the guy.”

Vegeta rolled his eyes as he tugged on some fresh sweatpants. “Who the fuck cares? He’ll turn up eventually. Enjoy the solitude while you can,” he advised.

Nappa laughed as he pulled on a pair of jeans. “Yeah, that’s probably wise. Where are you headed?” he asked, watching as Vegeta slid on his shoes and stood, bag in hand.

“I haven’t eaten all damn day. I’m fucking starving,” he said, and turned to head towards the exit. “I’m going to swing by the cafeteria. Catch you later.”

“Alright. See you, man.”

The sun had long since set by the time Vegeta stepped outside the gym and began the walk across campus to the cafeteria. With winter finally upon them the days had grown depressingly short, and he was unsurprised to find almost nobody outside as he roamed through empty common areas towards the dining hall. It was after eight o’clock at that point, and between the frigid temperature and the fact that it was Monday, he figured most people were huddled in their dorms, studying for finals. That’s where Bulma would surely be, at least.

His mind thumbed through images of her face fondly, wondering what her impression of the afternoon had been. Had she enjoyed it like he had? There was no reason to think she hadn’t, especially since she’d initiated the whole thing, but there was still a dark corner of his brain that beckoned him towards murkier thoughts. What if this was all an elaborate hoax? Was she trying to draw him in only to leave him high and dry later, when he least expected it? After all, what did  _ she _ get out of this arrangement? He certainly wasn’t nice to her like she was to him, and he wasn’t sure he could be; it just wasn’t in his nature to be outwardly affectionate like she was. He tried to make up for that in other ways - he paid a painstakingly amount of attention to her in bed despite a track record of not giving his partner’s pleasure a second thought, which he hoped was paying off in some respect - but couldn’t help but be paranoid that he wasn’t giving as much as he was getting from this arrangement.

Vegeta pulled out his phone as he rounded a corner of the Faculty of Education building, suddenly feeling guilty. Maybe he should text her, to check in and see how she was doing. He opened up their text message history, full of detailed messages from Bulma littered with emojis and exclamation points, but paused with his thumbs over the screen. They’d only just seen each other a handful of hours before. Was  _ he _ becoming too overbearing now? Fuck, this was hard.

Finally reaching the cafeteria, he stopped outside the entrance, mulling over whether he should message her or not. He certainly didn’t want her to think that he was oppressive, but the alternative - that he only wanted her for sexual favors - seemed worse. At least some kind of indication that she was on his mind would certainly be better than radio silence.

Without further hesitation he tapped out and sent a quick “xxx” to her and, content with this resolution, pushed through the doors of the dining hall to the warmth within.

The large room was sparsely populated by that time of night, which made his inability to instantly notice Raditz’s bulky form at a table near the dirty tray rack all the more unusual. It wasn’t the recognition that it was, indeed, Raditz who was chatting up a girl across the room that made him nearly drop his recently served cup of water; rather, it was the realization that said girl was Bulma. 

He stopped dead halfway to the food serving line to stare openly at the two of them sitting at a table together not more than a hundred feet away. Bulma had a book open on the table in front of her and was snacking from a small plate of french fries, and Raditz, directly next to her, was leaning on an elbow, yammering away as she nodded in time with his commentary. She didn’t look extremely invested in whatever he was saying, but she also didn’t look bothered; really, they looked rather natural sitting there together, as though this was something that happened regularly. Like they were just two buddies catching up on that day’s events.

Confusion bloomed in Vegeta’s stomach and quickly spread throughout the rest of his body, temporarily numbing his ability to think properly. How the hell did this make sense? As far as he knew, Bulma and Raditz had had no interactions outside of those directly related to him: when she had gone to ask for his dorm number, for example, or the handful of times he had seen her on campus while he’d been accompanied by Raditz and Nappa. There had been a few occasions in which Raditz had tried to talk to her, Vegeta knew, but even Raditz himself had admitted that she had promptly shut him down then. It certainly didn’t seem like a good introduction to a friendship warranting they eat meals together.

Something new sprang to mind, then, something born from the same dark section of his subconscious that had wondered if maybe his entire friendship with Bulma was nothing more than a game: an ugly, heavy feeling that blanketed any logical thought he could have possibly had and suffocated it to death. 

Vegeta knew Raditz, and had for years. Raditz was not the kind of person to foster female friendships unless he knew he was going to get something out of them; specifically, a warm place to bury his dick. In the near decade that he had been friends with Raditz, Vegeta couldn’t recall any women that he had kept around for any longer than it took to get them into his bed. And now, after previously showing interest in her, he was shooting the shit with Bulma?  _ His _ Bulma? There was no way this was an innocent “hey, how are you” kind of casual encounter.

And yet… would Bulma do that to him? The black basement of his brain insisted that she would, but the instinctual side of his gut told him that no, she wouldn’t. He knew her well enough by now to trust that she wasn’t out to get him, whatever his subconscious said be damned. This was  _ Bulma _ he was talking about, the same person who had made him soup when he was sick even though she had barely known him and he had only ever been an asshole to her. He had yet to see proof that she had a cruel bone in her whole body. The idea that she intended to fuck one of his friends behind his back made no sense, even if she was perfectly entitled to do so per their established rules. 

Still, he didn’t like seeing the two of them together chatting away like old pals. He was more than a little tempted to go slide into the chair next to Bulma and snake his arm around her waist, but he knew as soon as he thought it that that wasn’t a real possibility; as far as Raditz knew, at Vegeta’s own insistence, the two of them weren’t even friends. Besides, public affection was a no-go. Those kinds of displays were saved for real relationships, not for whatever the fuck he and Bulma were.

He stood in the middle of the cafeteria for a tick longer, hating the idea of leaving the two of them there undisturbed but knowing he had no choice, before he promptly abandoned his water and turned to exit the dining hall. He couldn’t stomach the idea of watching Raditz flirt with Bulma without being able to intervene, and would rather not eat at all than pretend it didn’t bother him.

He shouldered his way through the door back out into the cold and began sauntering back in the direction of his dormitory, half tempted to go take his rage out on the punching bag back in the gym. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I am my savior_  
>  _I found my truth letting go_  
>  _And I've never felt so alone_  
>  _In one unending moment_  
>  _I fall within your reach_  
>  _My song a sweet surrender_  
>  _Hold on to me, hold on to me_  
>   
>  Do you guys ever get really invested in a book or comic, and have to take a day or two to mourn it when it's over? I finally got caught up on the Shingeki no Kyojin manga and just want to die. A month between chapters is killer, especially when the story is so heart-wrenching!
> 
> Anyway! Thanks for reading! Your comments, kudos, and views seriously make my day, and I really appreciate you taking the time to support! (:


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